Quiet Crown
by mebh
Summary: Someone has taken an uncanny interest in the history of Colonel Roy Mustang. Arrogant, vain and often times unbearable as he is - his loyal crew struggle to protect him from an unknown threat. *Royai
1. Decoys

**Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Havoc -"

Havoc looked up from his doodles to see the dark eyes of his superior glaring at him in the expectant way of someone who has been trying to get his attention for quite some time. Colonel Mustang had been in a foul mood from the start of the week and things went downhill sharply from there. Most of this was more or less a direct result of one pivotal moment: he discovered a grey hair on Tuesday morning and was obsessing over it ever since. No one would argue that Colonel Mustang wasn't a man prone to the occasional mood swing.

Havoc dropped his pen on the desk before answering lethargically, "Sorry Boss, what can I do for you?"

"Have you see my hat?" Mustang asked, stressing each word as though talking to a child.

"No sir." He answered, causing his superior to groan and lean against the door frame. Havoc continued, "Have you tried Hawk-"

"Useless!" His superior said in a tone somewhere between an exclamation and a whine before disappearing into his office with a flourish.

Havoc looked dumbfounded for a moment before the thin line of his mouth broke into a smirk, then a giggle, then a full on howl of laughter. The others in the office followed suit, trying their best to stifle their amusement. Breda's red face was showing behind his sleeve trying to muffle his laughter, Falman let out a long, punctuated burst and Kain Fuery giggled wildly in the far corner of the room, glad to be in on a joke for once.

Somewhere behind the polished oak of the office door they could hear their superior fretting, drawers being flung open, books being shifted out of the way, at one point there was an agonised 'hat!' All of this only served to heighten the giddiness of the office until Breda actually had to remove himself. Havoc turned to Falman wiping a tear from his eye.

"Hilarious. The guy's touching thirty, what's there to get uptight about?" he asked Falman directly. Something told Havoc that to Kain Fuery, thirty still seemed an awfully long way away.

"And why won't he just ask the Lieutenant? She manages the Colonel to within an inch of his life." Fuery put in between giggles.

"Indeed. I once asked her if she had a clean handkerchief. She replied in the negative but informed me that the Colonel had several. Most odd." Falman added.

Havoc had emptied enough pints with Mustang to know what the whole circus was about. "Two reasons, Fuery my friend -" He began, pausing to enhance his knowledgeability and gather his audience's attention. "First off, the man wastes, like, fifty per cent of his energy on trying not to look like the fool he is. He knows what everyone says about Hawkeye babysitting him and would rather die than ask for her help - let's remember the time she floored Ol' Soggy Gloves with that nifty little tackle." They shared a chuckle at that. "Second, is this damn quasi-marriage they're both so keen on ignoring. He wants to be her Mustang, not some grey old mule. Not that either of them wouldn't shit themselves if you said it to them." He let out a long, amused sigh. "Three things actually, he _is_ the vainest creature this side of Briggs."

"I have to say I'm quite affronted by the whole display." Falman replied, running a hand through his full head of grey hair by way of demonstration.

"Ha! Of course, sorry man." Havoc said, taking Mustang's hat from his bottom drawer and placing it on the hat rack. "It could be worse -" Havoc started.

"Yeah, imagine a bald Mustang!" Fuery piped up just as the outer door swung open and Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye stepped in with a suspicious glance at Fuery.

She circled the office and leaned an ear to the Colonel's door, hearing him mumbling and banging about inside. She made her way to the window and leant against it with her arms folded, foot tapping.

"Well?" Her amber eyes fell on Fuery, knowing full well that Falman and especially Havoc were hardened, time worn cheaters, liars and practical jokers. "Something worth sharing?"

Havoc stepped in to save Fuery, "Hey Hawkeye – is the Colonel going bald?"

Riza's foot stopped tapping. Falman stared opened mouthed at Havoc, Fuery swallowed a lump.

"What? I thought you would have known, Havoc?" Riza said. The others leaned toward her. "The Colonel's been bald for years, he scalded himself in Ishbal and had a wig made from the tail of an Ishbalan pony. Expensive. Very glossy, is it not?" She shrugged. "I thought everyone knew that."

If Havoc had a cigarette in his mouth, it would have fallen out. Falman, made a sad, resigned face – bubble suddenly burst. Fuery giggled again nervously. Mustang: the tramp, the devil, the cad. Stone faced and raven haired. Dashing, dangerous and charming. All hips and swagger, prowling and with enough charisma to bottle. Bald. A wig. The image of a hairpiece danced around the inside of their heads. Stuck to a pillow, on a bedside table, combed out every night, washed tenderly. They would have thought it funny, but it was horrifying. How could they commit themselves to a man who got upset over a grey hair in a damn wig. Talk about closing the gate after the horse has…

"Wait a second -" Havoc began but Hawkeye cut him off with an uncharacteristic burst of laughter.

"You should try not to be so excitable boys, it's very unbecoming." She laughed, and doubled up a little with her hand over her eyes. Soon they were all laughing at the idea of a bald, vain, rampaging Colonel. Occasionally Falman would throw in a cautioning '_shh'. _It was all she could do to keep herself upright, leaning heavily on the window frame to offer some support. There was a fleeting sense of guilt before she began a second bout of laughing. The Colonel had it coming. She thought this obsessing over a few silly hairs a little ridiculous. She looked across the office and they all shared a cheeky exchange of glances. Havoc spun the Colonel's hat once on the stand and made his way back to his seat with a swagger. Fuery hiccupped and got back to his scribing. Falman looked a little unsettled by the whole affair, funny as it was. Shaking the giddiness out of her head, Hawkeye made her way to Mustang's office, knocked, and entered.

Mustang looked up from his desk, his fingers wound tightly in his hair. His look said a very clear and unimpressed _What now? _

"Edward Elric and his brother have just arrived in Central, Sir. Hughes met them and requested they report to Intel before liaising with yourself about their findings back East." She said, her tone clipped and revealing nothing of her previous conversation.

Mustang looked at her for a moment. Something about her eyes wasn't quite right. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Something about them, certainly. Were they _moist?_ "Have you a cold Lieutenant?"

"No sir."

"You're feeling quite alright?"

"Affirmative sir." She straightened her shoulders.

He stood up and walked toward her with a scowl. He took a closer look. "You haven't been ... upset?"

She resisted the urge to smirk. "No sir."

He leaned closer, she could see herself reflected back in the darkness of his pupils.

"Your eyes are watering." He said flatly.

She gave herself a moment before answering. "Must be all the dust in here, sir. Why is it so unsettled? Have you been looking for something?"

He opened his mouth and made a short 'ah' sound. His eyes narrowed. "Dismissed Lieutenant. Make sure the brat reports to me immediately after speaking with Hughes."

"Yes Sir." She saluted and made to leave before stopping with her back to him. "Oh and sir?"

"Mm?" She knew from his tone he didn't bother to look up.

"Your hat is on the hat stand. A hat stand should be the first place to look for one's hat."

Mustang stared open mouthed after her as the door was pulled quietly closed. Still watching the door, he reached into his top drawer and pulled out a small mirror. He drew his eyes from the door for one moment to check that new grey hadn't replaced those hairs he so painstakingly removed. Satisfied, he started back into his paperwork with something of a coyness in his face and the occasional glance at the wake of his Lieutenant.

* * *

On the other side of Headquarters, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, Ed and Al Elric strolled through the bustling halls of the Intelligence Department. Ed and Al, not natural 'strollers' had to temper their speed to keep in pace with Hughes' relaxed gait. As they walked they chatted about Hughes' family, about their journey, about what's been happening in Central. Conversation like this seemed oddly alien to the brothers, simply because it was all so ordinary. Life with Hughes had such an enchanting normalcy to it that it was easy to forget what had brought them all together in the first place.

Al, somewhat detached as they moved through the rabbit warren of Intel, understood perfectly why such a man as Colonel Mustang would want a 'Hughes' in his life. He was a harbour of sorts, something still in the middle of all this chaos. Al supposed that the man to his left possessed what no one else known to the brothers had. He had a family, and therefore, perspective. People, flesh and blood who existed totally outside the world of Homunculi, raging alchemists and the shadow hands of his nightmares. When he thought about it, everyone else in the arena had really only each other to rely on. It seemed the closer to the stone you were, the more isolated you became. Aside from Hughes, only Armstrong ever mentioned family. He knew something vague about Hawkeye's father, Havoc's family were miles away and Mustang could have fallen from the sky for all he knew. So Hughes, with his snapshots, paint stains on his uniform and litany of Elysia stories stood out as something really very special in his ordinariness. Al didn't covet what the man had, it was just something pleasant to aspire to.

"You have fun, Alphonse?" Hughes asked, breaking Al from his reverie.

"Fun sir?" Al took a moment, humming while he collected his answer. "It was definitely productive sir. I don't know about fun."

"Al's just sore because he tried to smuggle a pregnant, mangy cat onto the train." Ed sighed.

"She looked sad." Al said quietly and slowed in front of Hughes' office.

Hughes smiled and held the door open for the boys.

"So does Hawkeye but I don't see you trying to shove her in your belly" Ed said and gave a couple of knocks on Al's chest cavity, the dull 'thunk' ringing out across the small office.

"So long as she doesn't look sad for the same reasons that cat did, I think we're all doing okay." said Hughes.

Ed grinned. Al played with his hands.

Hughes gestured to the seats opposite his desk before propping himself against it, facing them.

"So boys, I know that Roy has given you something or other to report back on from your time in Poyntzpass -" Hughes began.

"Yeah -" Ed interrupted before putting on his best Mustang impersonation: "A very important text has come to light way out East, Fullmetal. Any Alchemist worth his salt would want to have a look at it. I would love to go myself but I've just got the sand out of my boots and couldn't bear the slow train past Eastern. Can't trust a courier without flagging something up to you know who. What we need is someone _small _enough to slip through the net. Oh! _You_ have a quiet spell just now if I'm right – be a good Major and have a look around, see if you can't find me a copy. I can even throw you the bones when I'm finished with it." Ed tutted. "Ass."

Both Hughes and Al looked a little flummoxed by the outburst.

"But -" Hughes started again. "I was hoping you had a chance to have a look at my thing?"

Ed nodded and opened his bag pulling out a bundle of tattered newspapers, dossiers, roll sheets, jotter pages and hand written letters. He passed them to Hughes. The man's expression dropped when he felt the weight of the material and sighed.

"Is everything okay Mr Hughes?" Al asked.

"Look boys – I know that Roy, the Colonel, isn't your favourite person -" Hughes said. Al looked like he was going to object but Hughes held up a hand to quiet him before continuing. "It's okay. I understand. He's on the wrong side of a desk to be liked by you -"

"He's on the wrong side of my boot to be liked by me." Ed mumbled.

Hughes gave a small, consenting smile to Ed before continuing. "You see, I've received some information … " A pause. "Someone is -" He stopped again, took a long breath. "My thoughts are -" He took another long moment before beginning with fresh fervour, gesturing freely. "Okay. Everything regarding the Colonel that's come my way recently, _everything_ is pointing towards something strange, or _fishy_ I suppose you could say." The boys' attention was squarely on Hughes now. "I don't know what or who it is, but someone is doing an awful lot of digging around him and I don't like it. When Madame Christmas approached me, I have to say I thought her a little paranoid, but she's right. Someone is taking more than a healthy interest in him. They broke into her house and ransacked it but took no money. Christmas has a lot of money. All they took were a few old journals from her time East, a few letters and a photo album. What this all means, I don't know. Maybe it's just the press and I'm just jumpy, or the brass trying to secure a little dirt on him. Could be someone is onto his vision and is hellbent on stopping it -"

"Or stealing it -" Al said, thinking of the shapeshifter, Envy.

Hughes' response was a _you see _gesture at the younger brother. "It's no secret that Roy isn't from round here, that he's adopted. Until now though, no one ever bothered to care much, least of all Roy – or so he says." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Most people assume he's of Xingese extraction – now I'm not so sure. Whoever it is that's so keen on getting to the quick of Roy Mustang certainly isn't sure. Their view of his past is much more – open minded, distant even."

Ed laughed, "Sorry sir but come on. The Colonel? Isn't he obviously some ways back Xingese?"

"Have you and the Colonel ever spoken about his past?" Al asked politely.

Hughes regarded them both. "This is very hard for me. I hate going behind his back like this. I'm sure he wouldn't be very pleased that you're in on this, Edward -" he flicked idly through the first newspaper on his lap. "I'm very glad that I have your utmost confidence in this matter." He looked hard at them both. "I'm being clear, aren't I?"

They both nodded.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that Roy is very close to my heart. And don't worry, you're not alone in thinking me mad." He smirked. "My Gracia has never lost a lot of love over Roy – but she understands, and I need you to understand too. I've known Roy for longer than I care to tell you two kids, and like him or loathe him, you've got to admit he carries a tremendous aura of purpose, of history." He smiled at the blond haired alchemist. "Like you Edward." He became sombre again. "If anything happens to him, I know in the very deepest part of me that we'll all be a lot worse off in a very big way."

A heavy mood fell over the office. Al's armour could be heard shifting uncomfortably. Edward looked deep in thought.

"We're clear on our little smokescreen for him? Why I needed to speak with you?" Hughes asked.

"The extra curricular activities of the district warden, yeah. The Colonel's going to be pissed we couldn't find that damn book of his though." Ed answered.

"You're lucky that this tied in with that text the Colonel wanted, Hughes sir." Al said.

"Luck had nothing to do with it – there is no book." Hughes said with an apology. "Roy's been prattling on about wanting to read up on some alchemic mumbo jumbo for an age now so all I had to do was let the right people know that a little known alchemist from the East had uncovered a paper about it. Worked quicker than I thought."

Ed's mouth hung open in a gaping smile. "You played Mustang?" He laughed. "Mustang was duped! What a sucker!"

"We kind of got duped too, Brother." Al said.

"Yeah, Hughes. What the hell do they teach you in the academy? How to be manipulative assholes 101? Straight As for Colonel Shithead." Ed said, a little calmer now.

Suddenly upbeat, Hughes smiled and slapped his knees, flinging the materials aside one by one, leafing through them as he went.

"Wow boys. You two have done really well: list of all registered births from 1883-1888, all police reports of human trafficking for same period, photos, contacts, accident log from the customs house at the Xingese border, obituaries concerning deaths in child birth 1880-1900 -" He looked up with a naughty smirk on his face, "Come on Edward – 1900? You're being very kind … you've heard the news haven't you?"

Ed looked at Al and then at the Lieutenant Colonel. "Eh – no?"

Hughes grabbed Ed by the shoulders, sniggering like a maniac. "We're having a little impromptu celebration for dear _old_ Roy this evening at my place -"

More clueless glances were exchanged.

"Edward – I'm about to make you the happiest man in Central." He picked up Ed's empty satchel and handed it to him, a grin halving his face. "Roy thinks the party's over as far as he's concerned, and it's just killing him – that is to say, Mustang's going grey and everyone knows it. Happy Birthday Roy!"

A young secretary was passing Lieutenant Colonel Hughes' office with reams of type copied work piled precariously in his arms. A deafening, excited, squeal came thrilling from Hughes' office causing the secretary to jump a foot high and drop two weeks worth of annual leave policy documents on the floor. With a groan, he bent to pick them up, incredulous at the howls of laughter from the other side of the door.


	2. Plans

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. Enjoy!**

* * *

Amestris, the most formidable military presence in the known world, was run like a very tight ship. At the bridge of the well governed vessel was Central Headquarters. It was an impressive demonstration of the military's might, dominating the landscape of Central City. The sprawling building contained one and a half thousand rooms, one hundred staircases and just shy of five miles of passageways. It had three high courts and countless petty courts, four great halls and two debating chambers. Headquarters was large enough to warrant its own dedicated postal service. The mailroom had a staff bigger than the general post office in Central City and issued mail deliveries and collections four times daily. A fleet of office juniors would thoroughly work their way through the rabbit warren of corridors to ensure that all personnel received their mail and internal documents in good time. This meant, for most senior staff, that the turnaround on their paperwork could be as speedy and efficient as the keen mail attendants who delivered and collected it. For Colonel Roy Mustang however, this meant that by the end of each day there were four untidy bundles of unopened mail perched as far away from him as his desk could accommodate. On particularly onerous days, the bundles made themselves at home on the floor.

It had become a daily routine in itself that the Colonel would glare, hiss and prod at the bundle until he had absolutely everything else finished. He loathed starting the day off with a bad memo, pedantic circular or the 'hand me down' work of his superiors. Finishing the day with the mail was in some way more bearable, it meant he could ignore the nonsense for a few more hours until the morning crept round whereupon reality struck and he would start dealing with it. Very occasionally, when the eyes of his Lieutenant weren't on him, he would make certain requests 'disappear' only to feign shock and disappointment in Central communication when he was asked for the work some days later.

It was six o'clock, the sky was deepening to purple and Roy began his reluctant plunge into his bundles. Thankfully, it was a light day for mail. Starting with the latest parcel, there were a few receipts, copies of witness statements for filing, a circular on the progress of the campaign in the North and the monthly letter detailing the amount of his pension. The letter managed to put a sour look on his face. Watching the door for any sign of his staff he reached into his top drawer and removed his mirror again, on the lookout for more grey hairs. Finding none, he stuck his tongue out at the letter. Moving backwards through the day he found more leaflets, letters requesting notes on past cases and a summons to a general meeting the following Tuesday. In the second to last delivery there was a hand written envelope post marked from Xing. He turned the envelope over in his hand wondering who could possibly have written to him from there. Before he had a chance to open it, his phone rang.

"Hughes." he said, expecting the usual evening call from his friend. As well as that it was a Friday, two days before his birthday and Roy knew despite Hughes' subterfuge, that the man had plans to celebrate his big day.

"Who's Hughes?" A solemn voice echoed across the line.

Roy sat up. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Did you get my letter?" The voice replied in the same low timbre.

"Who is this?" He repeated. "What letter?"

A long, tired exhale was all Roy got by way of a response.

Roy put on his best smooth voice, seeking to get something from the mystery caller by riling him. "Oh yes, your letter. I think I may have it here as a matter of fact. I don't think I'll open it though. The handwriting is detestable and you should know I am a very stylish man. Too stylish for such an ugly letter. Unless you've broken all your fingers or something dreadful like that and can't quite write properly? I suppose that would be okay ..."

The only answer from the mystery caller was another long sigh. Roy was silent, hoping to encourage more dialogue from the man. After ten seconds the caller still hadn't said a word. Mustang took an annoyed breath to begin more rankling but was stopped from talking by the suddenly furious screaming of the man. In spite of his poise, Roy jumped in shock. The man wasn't saying anything, there were no angry words, just wild wailing. Roy had to hold the phone away from his ear, trying to get a hold on things with a sharp, "Hey!" Then the line went dead.

He stared at the phone, then the letter.

"Hawkeye!" He shouted, tearing open the envelope.

Lieutenant Hawkeye slipped quietly into the room, glancing over her shoulder before closing the door behind her.

"Sir?" She asked, approaching his desk.

In one hand her Colonel held a small note. The other hand was fisted. He had a strange look on his face. It was a smirk of sorts but with distant eyes, an unsettling calmness.

"I have just taken the most uncanny telephone call," he started, "and received the most bizarre letter."

"Hughes Sir?" She asked, leaning slightly into his field of vision.

"Unfortunately no." He opened his hand and a few small, white stones fell to his desk. "Hard to believe, but something a little more … trying." He looked at her then but didn't say anything further.

"May I see the letter sir?" Hawkeye prompted.

He smiled and handed her the note. Leaning his chin on his arched fingers, he regarded her while she read, still wearing a strange expression on his face.

Hawkeye read, '_Straight from the horse's mouth. With love, Mum x'_

If she was confused before, she certainly was now. She cast one worried look at Roy before turning to the letter again. Hawkeye knew that her Colonel, being something of a personality in Central and known by most across the country, received odd letters from time to time but she had never seen any have quite this effect.

"Mum?" Hawkeye asked him. The man shrugged back.

Was the person talking about Madame Christmas, she wondered. Possibly not judging by the envelope postmarked from Xing. With the little white pebbles as well, the letter didn't seem to make sense at all. Not even to be a prank. Then it struck her. What lay scattered on Roy's desk weren't stones, but teeth.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes didn't bother to put his regular call into his friend as he normally did on a Friday evening. He had arranged for Havoc to take Roy to a bar as a diversion while he and his wife Gracia prepared their house for their celebratory soiree. He knew Roy was probably wise to his plans but carried on with the ruse in any case. It was funnier that way. The thought of Havoc trying his best to occupy or distract the man was very appealing, especially given Roy's mood that week.

It was only two hours before guests arrived and Havoc was expected with the Colonel half an hour after that. Everyone from the office was coming, as well as some ex-service personnel they had trained with at the academy. The Elrics were coming under strict conditions from Gracia that her husband must prevent Roy from getting Ed drunk. There would be enough wine and port to float a ship and Roy had a penchant for teasing or trying to embarrass the young alchemist.

Hughes requested that everyone dress smartly and bring a little something for Roy. Most were happy to get something for the birthday boy. Gracia's friends however (one of whom was an erstwhile conquest of Roy's and therefore snubbed by him) were bringing him, to quote his wife, 'a big fat nothing.' Ed had gone to particular effort to purchase Roy a tin of shoe polish and a comb by way of a makeshift hair dye kit as well as some other 'treats'. Hughes couldn't be sure how combustible shoe polish was but imagined they would all find out throughout the course of the evening. Hughes himself had originally bought his friend a bottle of thirty year old whiskey before being reminded by his wife that a bottle of the grain was probably the last thing Roy needed. Keeping the bottle to himself, he sourced an antique chess set instead. It was made, so he was told, from the timbers of an old Xingese war vessel.

He could hear Gracia in the kitchen preparing food for the evening. She hummed to herself as she worked, the sound punctuated by the oven door opening and closing, a whisk beating and the occasional outburst from his daughter, Elysia. Meanwhile Hughes brought furniture from around the house into the lounge to accommodate the guests.

Finishing off by dragging a chaise longue into the room, Hughes leaned himself against the wall and wiped his sleeve across his brow. Gracia made her way into the room with Elysia nestled against her hip. She raised her eyebrows in a 'you've been busy' manner and adjusted Elysia with a quick shuffle.

"Maes darling," Gracia said, "remind me again when Riza and the boys will be arriving?"

"Eight. On the dot. I'm sure Riza will take care of that." He smiled at his wife and gave Elysia a little pat on the head.

"Of course! It'll be interesting to see her all dressed up." She laughed a little. "If Havoc can't manage to coerce Roy along to your party he need only tell him that she's finally taken off that uniform. He'll be here in seconds, burning the front door down."

Hughes feigned shock at his wife's remark, "Gracia Hughes!"

"Maybe we could put a little bow on her head …" she continued, swaying her hips cheekily causing Elysia to giggle. "Some creatively placed ribbons …"

"Pretty lady!" Elysia shouted, throwing her arms up gleefully.

Hughes leant over and kissed Elysia on the crown of her head.

"That poor woman," he said, stroking Gracia's cheek. "Scrutinised by the gang of harpies you call friends." He gave her a wide smile to keep on the right side of his wife, having just insulted her friends.

"Poor Roy!" Gracia set a squirming Elysia on the floor. "He's in for a shock when he sees Adelina. I better hide the poker just in case."

"She still hasn't got over that whole 'called her the wrong name' thing then?" Hughes asked.

Gracia gave him a discouraging look. "Not on your life. But we never have evening parties, so I wanted to have them round for some normal company among all you military maniacs. Sorry honey, we'll be very well behaved." She gave his arm a squeeze before turning back to the kitchen. "You wouldn't mind washing the child would you and I'll finish up down here?" There was a slyness to her voice as she disappeared down the hall and Hughes knew exactly why.

"Sure." He answered with false resign.

Elysia, hearing the word 'wash' and knowing that 'bath' would follow 'wash', made a bee line for the front door. Her father caught her in one big scoop and carried her kicking and screaming up the stairs. Ever the family man, he had a smile on his face the whole way up.

* * *

Hawkeye stared open mouthed at the teeth littering the desk. Roy stared back at her for a long moment before lifting his bin and scraping the offensive items into it.

"Sir!" Hawkeye said. "Evidence, sir." She was dumfounded at what he could possibly be thinking.

She grew even more incredulous as he reached out, took the note from her, tore it to shreds and threw the pieces in the bin also. He then took one of his gloves from his pocket and burnt the items in the bin with a snap. It took the smoke to clear before Hawkeye could gather herself from her incredulity.

"With all due respect sir, what are you doing?" She asked, palms open in belligerence to his seeming irrationality.

He stood sharply and dusted off his uniform. Stuffing his glove back in his pocket he made his way past his Lieutenant to the door. She placed a hand on his arm to stop him, an act that felt hugely inappropriate when he looked at her with exaggerated inquiry, eyebrows raised.

"Sir?" she said again, trying hard to keep a chastising strength to her voice. He placed his hand on top of hers, patting it with condescension.

"Lieutenant, if someone wants to go to town on my appearance, sending silly letters from Xing and pig's teeth posing as relics from some fabricated, dusty old mother then let them. That - " he pointed at the bin, "is not evidence. That is nonsense and we shan't be paying any heed to it." A look of guilt ghosted across his face before he smiled and opened the door. Hawkeye, piqued by his playacting pushed the door shut again.

"Sir we can salvage the teeth and have Hughes look at them a little closer at least. What if they _are _human? Where did this someone get human teeth?" She asked, shifting her head to try to achieve eye contact.

He looked at her and smiled patronisingly. "Well, not from my mother. No one knows who she is or where she is and for my part I struggle to care. This is a bad attempt at provocation and I'm telling you, as your superior, that we needn't worry ourselves. It's a pathetic little stunt. The man's clearly an imbecile or a lunatic, or very likely both. Let's try our best not to behave in the same way, Lieutenant." He removed her hand from his arm and exited without another word to her.

As Hawkeye bent into the bin to remove the teeth she heard the Colonel call out to Havoc that he needed a drink in any case so there was no need to keep up the pretence of Hughes' diversion. She listened to the sound of Havoc's denial as it became quieter when the two men moved out of the main office and down the hall.

Wiping the blackened teeth on a handkerchief she placed them in her pocket. She was well aware that the 'stunt' had cut through to her superior in a big way. She was also aware that his being so completely uncivil to her was some petulant attempt at trying to get her off his back. This didn't help the nauseating anger that crept into her belly though. At that moment she felt like calling Hughes and telling him to forget her attendance at the party, the last person she wanted to see parade around the place that evening was Roy Mustang. However, duty called and people were expecting her to be there. Moreover, it was _always_ a cause for gossip if she wasn't at his side at functions of that nature. 'With my tail wagging, waiting for a pet,' she thought before turning off the lights and leaving his room.

* * *

An express train hurtled through the quickening onset of darkness. On it, the passengers chatted idly, the mumbles and giggles carrying over the noise of the wheels. A figure was sitting alone with an old newspaper in front of him. The headline read, 'The Heroes Return.' Pictured was a young soldier of exotic countenance. He was shown marching over cobbled streets, his eyes directed at something out of frame and there was a wistful air to his gaze. To the side of the shot there were people waving banners and one especially excited girl was caught blowing a kiss. The figure grunted and began scratching at the image of her face until it disappeared. The same finger then glided across to the image of the soldier. It moved tenderly over his face and traced the lines of his uniform. 'So perfect,' he thought with a sigh.

He looked at the window. The reflection looked back at him with dark eyes and a slack jaw. 'I am detestable,' he thought. He was not stylish, not like the boy soldier in the newspaper. Not like the man waiting for him in Central. That man called him ugly, detestable. Mocked him. He clamped a hand over his mouth, suddenly overcome with the urge to scream. He started shaking but managed to collect himself. With a new calm, he took a scalpel from its case and began dissecting the image of the man, smiling as he worked.


	3. The Big Affair

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist - Enjoy!**

* * *

Riza Hawkeye was not in the mood for merrymaking, chit-chatting or hobnobbing of any kind. If she felt she had a choice in the matter, she would be far away from Maes Hughes' front door and the small crowd standing next to her. The night had grown bitterly cold and underneath her heavy coat her dress was doing little to keep the chill away, another reason to find the idea of the party loathsome.

She walked up the two steps to the front door and blew on her cold fingers before ringing the doorbell. Waiting for the door to be answered she told herself to stop sulking. She may have been reeling from the spat with the Colonel but this was a party and she was amongst friends. The only thing to do was to forget his substandard behaviour for one evening and try her best to have a good time. Being known as overly serious in the office meant that she would have to try twice as hard at being 'good fun'. Behind her the small group of her assembled colleagues chatted away. She heard Fuery say something about her wearing a dress and she rolled her eyes.

Hawkeye could see the tall silhouette of Hughes approaching and stepped back as the door was opened.

"Hello one and all!" He shouted, waving his wine glass freely. He bent over and greeted Hawkeye with a kiss on the cheek. "You look frozen, Riza. Come on in and get yourself a drink."

"Take her coat!" Breda shouted, more or less voicing what everyone else was thinking. They were dying to see their colleague alternatively attired. Unsurprisingly, they had a bet riding on everything from the colour to the length of her dress. Falman bet against her wearing one at all, thinking she would find an excuse to wear her uniform.

Hawkeye began unbuttoning her coat but stopped suddenly to turn and face them.

"You _have_ all seen me out of uniform before, you realise?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow and slipping her coat off. She handed it to Hughes and prepared herself for the scrutiny. In the end, she opted for a very straightforward cream, raw silk dress with miniscule flower detail on the bust. Her shoulders were covered by a vermillion, silk scarf which also served to cover the edge of her tattoo showing past the high back of the dress. Out of her three choices it was the most delicate and when choosing it she felt it would best undercut the apparently macho image her work colleagues had of her. It hardly seemed worth it now she wanted to string the birthday boy up by her scarf and gouge out his eyes with her spool heels.

Hughes gave her another quick peck on the cheek and whispered, "You look wonderful, girl" before guiding her toward the lounge and away from the study of her companions. He continued to greet the others, finishing with the Elric brothers and their good friend, Winry. Again, being the perfect gentleman, Hughes took Winry's coat and told her how beautiful she looked. Then he spotted the ludicrous package Ed was holding.

"Wow Ed," Hughes began with a snigger, "that's quite the present you have for Roy there."

Ed was holding an enormous box, wrapped in red paper and tied off with a gigantic bow. It was half the height of him but Hughes refrained from passing comment on that particular observation.

"It's the least I could do," Ed smiled back, conspiracy written all over his face.

"We would have bought him a proper gift but we couldn't afford it. We'd have ended up charging it to the Colonel anyway which didn't seem fair. So brother, um … made do." Al said.

"I'm sure he'll love it." Hughes said, trying to manoeuvre himself round the giant suit of armour to shut the door and keep the cold out.

"The birthday shit better show up." Ed said, casually making his way down the short hall and into the lounge.

The room was already quite crowded. Everyone bar the brothers, Winry and Fuery appeared to be in their late twenties to thirties and as such, were suitably equipped with alcohol for the occasion. The Colonel's staff recognised some of the others so Ed figured they must have trained together. Amidst the group stood the impressive figure of Quentin Vultee, a former sharp shooter from Havoc and Hawkeye's cadet column who deferred from the service after taking a bullet to the hip in Ishbal. He was presently engaged in telling Hawkeye how wonderful she looked with much earnestness. Hawkeye looked fittingly embarrassed and if Ed didn't know better, he would say the fellow was really quite taken with her. He saw the man making circles with his thumbs on the backs of her hands, still looking intensely at her. Maybe he was an old rival of Mustang's and a fight would break out later. Ed grinned evilly. In a fist-fight he didn't fancy the Colonel's chances much.

"Hey, Winry," Ed nudged his friend, "Check out Hawkeye and that bruiser."

Winry looked past Ed to where the Lieutenant was standing.

"Oh my!" she said, her eyes lighting up. "He's not half bad is he?"

Ed's face fell into a sulk, she was missing his point by a mile. "He's old."

Al joined the two watchers and looked on for a moment before commenting quietly. "He's no older than Mr Hughes or the Colonel."

"Yeah and one of them is disintegrating into greydom." Ed huffed, moving to get himself and Winry a glass of orange juice each.

Winry stopped his arm, forcing the glass back onto the table. She looked hard at him, then at the wine, then back at him. Her hint was lost on Ed.

"I'm dressed like a lady, at an evening party with adults. I'm going to be sampling the wine." She said haughtily, bypassing Ed to grab a glass of red wine.

"Winry, that's not such a good idea-" Al started but was cut off by Hughes approaching, taking the wine from Winry's upraised hand and replacing it with the glass of orange juice.

"Not on my watch." He commented before joining Hawkeye and the others.

Gracia and her friends were gathered around the piano, one of them playing a cheerful ragtime number while another sang. Elysia was tottering about from person to person with a bowl of nibbles, offering the food then running off before the person had a chance to take something. Denny Brosh had Maria Ross cornered by the drinks cabinet, each with a glass of wine. Armstrong dominated the room, dressed all in tweed and sipping delicately from a glass of brandy. Spying a table laden with cakes, biscuits and meats, Ed ceased his people-watching and decided that the best way to spend the next thirty minutes or so was by glutting himself on the spread.

Hawkeye continued to talk with Vultee who had relaxed enough to finally let go of her hands. They had been an item of sorts back in their academy days before she put an end to it, not wanting to jeopardise her career should they get caught together. She supposed if she was honest there was still an echo of something there. He could have passed for an actor or an athlete, being strongly built, fair and rugged looking. He was the model of a 'good guy': honest, direct and he had a contagious lightheartedness about him that made him very popular in their circles. Havoc and he had been close friends in their early days.

Hawkeye glanced at the clock on the wall behind Vultee. Where _was_ Havoc?

Vultee, catching her anxious glance, smiled at her. "Waiting for the 'belle of the ball' to arrive?" He asked with a cheekiness in his eyes.

Hawkeye looked back distractedly. "Mm, something like that." She regained her focus and smiled at him. "You should know as well as anyone how dangerous those two can be when they're together. I wouldn't be surprised if they ended up on a stagecoach to Rush Valley again."

Vultee laughed loudly at that. "Of course! I forgot that was Mustang and Havoc." He laughed again, covering his eyes with an embarrassed groan. "I had completely forgotten about that. They came back like two skinned bucks, shaved each other's hair off on the ride because they wanted to look meaner. My word." He and Hawkeye exchanged a playful look before they both burst out laughing, with him holding onto her for support. They attracted some interested looks from all at the party, one of Gracia's friends especially.

There was a hammering on the door. It could only be the boys.

Gracia's friend ceased playing. Another could be seen fixing herself in the mirror. There were 'hushes' and giggles across the room and more laughter when Al, misunderstanding, tried to hide himself behind the curtains.

"You're the only one hiding, Al. Get a grip." Winry said, swirling her orange juice with a surly face.

Those who didn't know Al humoured the giant suit of armour as another of the military's eccentricities – perhaps someone horribly scarred was operating the suit or an ancient combat enthusiast. They had seen stranger things in the company of Maes Hughes.

"Okay, everyone in position." Hughes sang as he moved round the crowd adjusting people to some aesthetic plan only he knew. "Gracia! Camera please."

Mustang could be heard shouting, "No camera!" from outside the door. This was followed by a louder, "It's freezing out here and Havoc is a tad … inconvenienced." The man was silent for a beat before more ferocious knocking was heard. Hawkeye grumbled and Vultee mimed shaving his head at her.

"Coming!" Hughes shouted and made his way to the door.

He opened it to see Mustang balancing a cigarette on his bottom lip and Havoc smoking a pipe. Havoc looked shoddy in his crumpled work uniform but the Colonel was perfectly turned out in true fashion - white trousers; a light green, tweed jacket; plain, rose waistcoat; a crisp, high collared shirt; mint green cravat and a great cream coat. Anyone else would have looked like a complete mess but Mustang never seemed to miss the mark with his clothes. Apparently he had taken to using a cane as well. He was leaning belligerently on a fine oak one. Hughes couldn't be sure if he was making a comment on his thirtieth birthday or just trying to set a new trend.

The host made to hug his friend on his 'almost birthday' but was rebuffed by having Mustang place the limp cigarette in his shocked mouth. "It's on me," he mumbled before slipping past Hughes and into the warmth of the hall. Havoc was faring much worse and stood with eyes half closed drawing languidly on his pipe.

"Havoc smokes a pipe?" Hughes asked, taking the pipe from the Lieutenant and leaving it on the sill next to the door.

"Stolen," Mustang answered, fidgeting with a silver cigarette case.

"And the cane?" Hughes took the cigarette case from his friend and placed it next to the pipe, pulling Havoc in as he shut the door.

"Yeap." Mustang answered, patting his friend's cheek with a wink. "We're really not that bad. Apart from Havoc who is utterly crapulous and should be put to bed post-haste. He tried to drive here, can you imagine? I had to pry him from the wheel."

"Did _you_ drive here, Roy?" Hughes asked with more than a little concern.

Roy looked at him for a long time, swaying a little. He answered furtively in the negative.

Hughes took his hand and pulled him into a hug. "Happy birthday, old friend. Try your best to behave."

Mustang's response was to take off Hughes' glasses and put them on Havoc before prowling into the lounge to greet his well wishers. He was met with a chorus of voices singing happy birthday and what seemed like a genuinely warm greeting from Gracia. She narrowed her eyes at him playfully, trying to suss out his level of inebriation before handing him a glass of port. He thanked her with a kiss on the cheek and a whisper of, "You're very kind. Thank you for hosting this, Gracia."

After Hughes made his way back into the lounge with Havoc sloping after him, the chatter got back to normal. Mustang was welcomed by his current and former associates and even Ed had an unenthusiastic 'happy birthday' for him. Hawkeye stood some distance away with her back to him, chatting eagerly to Quentin Vultee and a few others from the academy. The high back of her dress and the red scarf concealed what only he knew was there. He turned back to Hughes and the others with a broad smile.

"Where did Fullmetal get to?" He asked, tempted to lift up his feet in a pretence of checking that he wasn't standing on the diminutive alchemist. He thought better of it though. Mustang had reasoned that he would try his best to enjoy the evening, despite the odd nature of the day and the week for that matter. Though having Hawkeye in such close quarters was making that a problem. He glanced back at her casually, a stab of guilt flashing in his stomach before his thoughts were interrupted by Ed.

"I'm here, jackass!" He shouted through a mouthful of sponge cake. He swallowed before continuing. "Nice outfit by the way, Colonel. You spill a barrel of bleach on your laundry?"

Mustang smirked, refusing to be led into Ed's challenge. Ed wasn't easily deterred though.

"The Eastern Ballet called, they want their costume back." He continued, shoving a second piece of cake into his mouth.

Winry stepped up to the group with Al close behind. "I think you look very nice, Colonel. Happy birthday. Are you having a pleasant evening? I love that cravat, I've never seen that colour used in neckwear before. It's very fetching." She smiled innocently but a glance at the port in his hand gave her game away.

"Nice try, Miss Winry." He said, taking a sip from his drink with a smug look on his face. "You teenagers are really missing out on this fine, delicious, corrupting alcohol."

"Come on, Winry, let's leave Captain Pastel." Ed said, pulling on her arm. "I want to say hello to Gracia properly."

Al made an embarrassed sound before following his two friends to the group gathered around the piano.

Hughes and Mustang followed them with their eyes, Hughes distractedly fixing his own shirt collar.

"Are you going to tinkle on the ivories later, birthday boy?" Hughes asked.

"If you so much as mention it, I'll burn the thing down." Mustang answered with absolute seriousness in his eyes.

"My, my! What would the good people at the conservatoire say?" Hughes joked.

"They would say-" Mustang grabbed Hughes' arm in a tight grip of alarm, "Is that Aleida?" He asked with a touch of panic.

Hughes laughed. "Adelina, Roy!" He shook his head. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Roy composed himself and shrugged, "Huh. I thought it was Aleida, no?"

"You thought it was 'Karina' once upon a time as well … Gracia's been doing a lot of damage control after that little slip up but you'll still be lucky to get out of here tonight with your little man in tact."

"I can handle my little man quite adequately-" he stopped short and heaved his shoulders, realising his unfortunate innuendo. "What _is_ wrong with me?"

They were interrupted by the sound of silver striking crystal. The guests quieted themselves as Armstrong stepped forward to speak. There was a mass rolling of eyes, including Havoc who didn't have to try very hard to make the gesture given his current state.

"Friends, friends of friends, colleagues of old and colleagues of new, wives, partners, ladies and gentlemen-"

"Hurry up!" Havoc shouted.

Armstrong cleared his throat with annoyance. "We are all here to celebrate the birthday of our dear friend, colleague, acquaintance-"

Havoc groaned loudly into his hands and Hughes gave him a rallying shake of the shoulders. Mustang was staring at his feet, affording himself a quick glance up every now and then. At one point he caught the eye of his Lieutenant before looking away again. That same wash of guilt sped through him, making him feel a little weak. He coughed and resumed the study of his feet.

Armstrong breathed deeply, ready to continue despite the interruptions from Havoc only to be interrupted again by Hughes raising his glass and cheering, "To the scoundrel, the black dog, the miscreant fop and despite all this, my dearest of friends - Roy Mustang everybody!" Thus ending the poorly attempted speech. There was a quick round of applause before the piano music started up again and the conversations began anew.

Hawkeye, turning back to Vultee smiled awkwardly. He noticed her drink was empty and gestured to it.

"Care for a top up?" He asked.

"Why not?" She answered with a smile, handing him her glass. As he took it he leant closer to her and spoke in a hushed voice.

"Aren't you going to greet the man of the moment?" He asked, a light conspiracy dancing in his eyes. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Please don't, Quentin." Was all she said. The last thing she wanted was the rumour mill churning more than it already was. She knew Vultee would love to ride in and rescue her from some salacious affair but he would be sorely disappointed if he thought she would indulge such speculation.

Grimacing, he offered a quiet apology before moving off to refill their drinks. He passed Mustang and Hughes on the way and stopped to say a quick hello. Although Mustang hadn't trained directly with Vultee, the pair knew each other through Havoc and had woken up together on the wrong side of a hang over more than a few times. Hawkeye glanced at them somewhat nervously before turning to join another conversation.

The night moved forward at a nice pace, interrupted only by the fracas when Madame Christmas arrived with a few of her girls. The military boys' estimation of the evening rocketed with the addition of the ladies. Breda and a rubbery Havoc tried their best to straighten themselves up while Fuery actually cowered a little at the boisterous collection of fashionably attired girls. Mustang appeared to sober up considerably with the appearance of his foster mother, sneaking off occasionally to get himself a glass of water. One of his 'sisters' made herself comfortable at the piano and started into a light waltz. The atmosphere livened and a few more speeches were made in honour of both Mustang and their hosts. Hughes mock-waltzed with Elysia in his arms, demanding that someone take pictures. Hawkeye looked on quietly, still in the company of her old service friends, including Vultee.

The time came when Hughes asked politely for the music to stop while Mustang opened his gifts. The birthday boy groaned and reluctantly made his way to the table set out with presents. Madame Christmas chastised him for being an ingrate. He opened each in turn, touched by some, laughing at the in-jokes of others. He thanked each person graciously as each gift was opened. He gave Hughes an uncharacteristic hug when he opened the chess set and promised Ed to a game or two. Ed scowled and stuck out his tongue. As Mustang sifted through the gifts, he was keeping his eye out for the signature of one person especially. Not seeing her delicate handwriting on any of the cards he had to stop himself from pulling a face of abject disappointment. He moved on to Ed's huge present.

"My word, Fullmetal. How did you manage to heave this around? Did you bring it in a little cart?" He asked.

"Oh, that's _so_ funny Colonel but it was really no bother. I knew I had to bring it to you. Couldn't risk you snapping a bone trying to lift it, old man." Ed retorted. The room was divided into those who knew the manner of the verbal sparring and laughed accordingly and those who looked on dumbfounded at the charade.

Mustang smiled to himself as he tore open the paper. Inside was a collection of items including aspirin, a hip brace and an improvised hair dye set of shoe polish. He buried that particular item beneath the packaging. Searching further his hand stopped on something that was a genuine surprise. It took his breath away in fact. His fingers had touched on a pair of ragged old dentures. The room seemed to shift as his mind flashed back to the broken teeth lying in his palm and beyond that image, somewhere in the shadows and just for a moment, something darker and more momentous. Thrust into the recollection, he didn't notice the uncomfortable air that had settled over the room during his silence. Ed's face contorted with confusion and Al shifted from one foot to the other. Mustang could practically hear the mystery caller screaming again, could feel the smoothness of the enamel on his fingers. It was only when Havoc drunkenly shouted, "Hurry up!" again that Mustang was snapped from his reverie. He tried his best to produce a convincing laugh, noticing the confused expressions of the partygoers.

Madame Christmas then approached him with her gift, her face curious when she noticed the odd look in her son's eyes. She placed the small package into his hands and closed his fingers around it warmly. He kissed her hands in thanks and opened the gift slowly. Knowing how much Madame Christmas was worth and how much she doted on her only son, the crowd leaned in to try to get a look at what he had received. Mustang laughed and placing his hand on the back of his mother's neck gave her a warm kiss on one cheek, then on the other. In his hand he held a beautiful lighter.

"It's custom made and for decoration mostly. We know _you're_ not likely to need it." One of the girls said proudly.

"You would be surprised ..." Mustang said quietly, thinking on his confrontation with Scar.

"Eighteen carat white gold, four hundred and fifty brilliant cut diamonds." Another chimed in.

"Hush girls. Don't boast." Christmas admonished. "Turn it over, Roy. I was assured the symbolism was very 'in'. It also has a certain significance to our background." She said with a secretive smile, but her allusion was lost only on the teenagers.

He turned the gift over in his hand and got the second shock of his evening. He saw the image of a skull without a jaw leering out at him from the back of the lighter. The significance his mother referred to was the use of the symbol to denote a rakish lifestyle, courtesans and sensual abandon. It tied in neatly with the bordello where the girls worked and where he grew up. However, when Mustang looked at the image of a skull wrought in diamonds his heart stopped. Beautiful and uncanny as it was to look upon, his mind swam with the memory of the letter. As much as he pretended to Hawkeye and to himself, he had scarcely been more vexed in his lifetime. He tried to stammer a thank you but couldn't manage. Once again the atmosphere of the room slowed to an uncomfortable, confused silence. Gracia mouthed something at her husband who nodded back at her, acknowledging the strangeness in their guest's demeanour.

"It's one of those half skulls you see all the dandies going wild for, don't you like it son?" Christmas ventured.

Hawkeye and Hughes then exchanged a glance. They both had reason to be concerned for Mustang. Hughes thought it may be one of the man's mental ricochets from Ishbal, knowing nothing of the letter. Hawkeye knew exactly what stopped him with such force though. She was about to intervene to get things moving again when Mustang suddenly beamed a huge smile at his mother and his sisters.

"Of course. I love it. It's perfect. You shouldn't have." His voice was frantic and high pitched. He pocketed the item and was set upon by his sisters who wanted to share in the good will also.

"I know I shouldn't have." Christmas said above the chaos of feathers and fringing. "Imagine! My only boy turning thirty and making me feel hideous and old."

Hughes laughed, casting a relieved glance at Hawkeye. "Nonsense Madame! You're a spring chicken." He said and by way of proving his point continued with, "Not one bone replaced, not even a hip! And you still have all your own teeth."

At that Mustang dropped his glass. It shattered and threw up a spray of port.

"Gracia, I'm so sorry." He stuttered, kneeling down to pick up the shards.

Havoc snickered and rolled his eyes at one of Mustang's faux sisters in an effort to strike up some conversation. The girl winked at him and moved away. Havoc winked back at an empty space.

"Don't worry about it, Roy. These things happen." Gracia said, bending over to help him. She saw that his hands were shaking, his veins etched against the paleness of his skin. She made a mental note to mention her observation to her husband later.

"I'm so sorry. Your carpet-" he started, hearing a slight tremor in his voice. He told himself to pull it together and that this was ridiculous. He was Roy Mustang and he did not speak with a tremor.

Gracia smiled, lifting the last few pieces and taking Roy's collection from him. She dropped the shards into a decorative plate on the case behind him. "Your trousers ..." She said, gesturing to the huge port stain on them, giggling a little to try to put him at ease.

"Guess you shouldn't have gone with the white, Colonel." Ed said smartly from his perch by the window, still eating.

Mustang stood with a deep breath, telling himself to reel it in again. They were unfortunate coincidences, it had been a long week and he had been drinking since half past six. There was nothing to worry about. The caller was a maniac and the teeth were a silly gesture. As he collected himself, he once more caught the eye of Hawkeye who stared back strongly. It wasn't a look of gloating or condescension, not a look of 'I told you so.' Unease was written clearly in her features. He brushed himself off a few times and turned to Hughes with a desperate look indicating the man should start the party off again.

"Well, Havoc," Hughes started with a sly smile, "you've managed quite well compared to slippy fingers here. Fran darling, why don't you kick things off again with a nice upbeat tune?" He appealed to one of Gracia's friends.

The jibe at Mustang generated a laugh from the room and people generally got the message that the display of clumsiness was over. Mustang went back to chatting with the military gang. A few people left for some air or changed position and for the first time that evening, he and Hawkeye were standing next to each other. As one conversation blended into the next, they both found themselves caught between two different discussions at the same time. Hawkeye could feel his discomfort at the unexpected pressure to say something; she was quite used to being silent and observing.

Mustang knew that following his ugly display in the office, his Lieutenant was most definitely not his biggest fan and quite possibly wanted to shoot, stab or otherwise damage him. He worked through countless sentences in his head, trying to think of some way to strike up a conversation that seemed vaguely natural. Mustang being what he was however, chose the worst possible option.

"So… " he began with warmth. Hawkeye looked at him expectantly but, much to his relief, not unpleasantly. It wasn't to last though. "You and that man-mountain, Vultee seem to have thrown some fuel on the embers."

Her face fell and she turned from him, excusing herself from the group. Mustang cursed under his breath, knowing he should follow but not wanting to cause a scene. He felt Hughes budge into the group and stand next to him.

"What did you say?" Hughes questioned, an edge to his voice.

Mustang looked indignant. "Nothing."

"That's sort of your problem with her, is it not?" Hughes asked.

Mustang coughed out an incredulous laugh and shook his head, not wanting to engage with the conversation at all. Irked by his caginess, Hughes decided to push on.

"You wouldn't have happened to pass comment on her speaking with Quentin, would you?"

Mustang's eyes flashed and he took Hughes' glass from him and sipped, contemplating.

"_Quentin_." He said darkly. "No one should have a 'Q' in their name. It's unnatural."

He took another drink, finishing the rest in one swallow. Hughes was looking at him, habitually biting his lip in frustration. Mustang looked back with a challenge in his eyes before losing steam.

"I'm an idiot." He said, handing back the glass.

"Yes." Hughes answered.

"I should follow her."

"Yes."

"Give her a drink."

"Yes."

"Thank her for coming."

Hughes nodded. "Yes."

"Tell her she looks-" he stopped, cleared his throat and poured two glasses of wine from the table next to them.

"Yes?" Hughes prompted.

Mustang balanced the two glasses between the fingers of his right hand and plucked two cigarettes from an abandoned military jacket.

"You're insufferable, Hughes. You do realise that?"

"And yet, here we both are." Hughes said with a smile. "Just, don't lose it buddy, okay?"

Mustang nodded and walked off towards the back door.

Gracia, sidled up next to her husband who placed an arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head.

"What was that all about?" She asked in a whisper.

Hughes looked at Mustang's retreating back and sighed.

"Which? The spacey exhibition before or that little thing with Riza just now?" He whispered back.

Gracia rubbed her husband's arm in comfort. "Don't worry, he's probably just stressed with all the attention, his mother being here and everything. He'll be okay."

"I hope so." He answered honestly, watching as Mustang gathered himself before opening the back door.


	4. Winter Winds

**Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, dinnae, own Fullmetal Alchemist. Enjoy!**

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Roy found Riza leaning against the back wall of the house with one delicate sandal propped against the stonework. He could tell she knew he was there but given the circumstances, realised she could be forgiven for ignoring him. He took a deep breath to ready himself. Smooth talking would not suffice with his Lieutenant. Bare faced honesty was what was required, a concept Roy often struggled with.

"You'll freeze." He said, still keeping his distance.

She shot him a look, noticing as she did the two cigarettes and two glasses of wine.

"Sir, I'd rather not." She looked away again for a few seconds, then back at him when she saw he hadn't budged. "Thank you. I know it's your big night but if you could allow me a few moments to myself ..."

She looked angrier than he had ever seen her. The woman had shouted at him before in a work context, huffed with him when he was being unreasonable and had once succeeded in breaking his little finger back when they were teenagers but this was different. Her countenance was almost more than he could take. Pulling rank, snide comments about her past relationship with Vultee and his implying she was behaving like an _imbecile_ was enough to cross several lines. His face went red thinking about it. He realised that more than anything he had experienced in the past, _this_ was the most horrible feeling he could ever have. So horrible, he didn't quite know what to do with it. He had never in his life been beholden to anyone but it dawned on him that making the woman in front of him happy was the only thing in the world at that moment he was bound to do.

"Riza-"

"Don't sir." She snapped before composing herself once more. "It's okay. You can handle yourself. I know. I get it. I'm sorry to have misinterpreted the meaning of the letter." She wasn't even looking at him.

'Horrible,' he thought. He felt sick.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly, then annoyed with his own impotence in the exchange began anew with fervour and impatience. "Look Hawkeye, just take the damn wine and let's talk about this."

Her eyes flashed at him and she scoffed, "Behaving like an imbecile again, am I? I do apologise, Colonel that I can't puppeteer my feelings quite as shrewdly as you do."

He couldn't believe his ears, she had never spoken to him this way before. He was inclined to blame her attitude on the wine or tiredness but he knew better. A levee had broken and he deserved the soaking he was going to get, though at present he felt like he was in greater danger of drowning.

"My attitude earlier-" he began but was stopped again.

"-was atrocious and unprofessional. We all work very hard to keep you safe and you swan about like you're untouchable. Well done if you are but the rest of us certainly aren't, Colonel. The rest of us actually try very hard." She pushed herself off the wall and turned to face him. "While you laugh in the face of danger we continually exert ourselves only to be called lunatics and imbeciles when we show the least bit of concern for you. Even if I didn't give two damns about you, I was only following protocol in wanting to keep the evidence from the letter but I was stupid for thinking you had any respect for the work I do or why I'm there in the first place."

Mustang reached back and shut the door, making sure no one was listening. His temper was starting to work its way into his pores. He knew he had no right to feel angry, that he deserved everything she was saying and on another day he would have completely agreed with her but today he was wounded and _scared_ by her outburst.

"You really believe I think that?" He asked in hurt.

"Can you just go back inside please? You have guests." She said resignedly.

"I don't care about the fucking guests, Riza, I care about you!" He screamed, wine spilling over his pale hands.

She continued to look at him squarely before looking back out at the lawn.

Roy, his heart hammering in his chest, set the glasses of wine on the windowsill and moved toward her. He ducked down in front of her, trying to catch hold of her elbows with his hands to secure eye contact, or some contact at least. She tried to shrug her arms free of him, more furious than she had ever felt in her life but try as she may, his hands kept hold of her.

"Lieutenant ..." Mustang implored but she kept trying to twist out of his grip, her actions frantic. "Riza, please-"

Panicked by his intensity and his unwillingness to let her be, Hawkeye struck out with a sharp upward slap to his face. She paused to catch her breath. "Stop it." She said through gritted teeth.

He let go of her elbows and looked away. She could see his eyes become dull with the upset and she knew she should stop herself. She knew that although it was impossible to pack everything back into the box, she could still prevent things from getting worse. There was a part of her though that wanted to push and for the first time in her life, she let that part seep into the front of her mind.

She began in a low voice. "Charming as you are, Colonel you have hurt me greatly and I won't subject myself to your silvery words now that you're feeling the kickback of your actions earlier." He was looking at her now with eyes full of loss, huge and black and wet. She pushed on. "You forget too easily that a heart beats under the fabric of my uniform and that I am not a token or a mascot."

He mouthed 'I know' but no sound was made, he shuffled his feet and wiped at his eyes. He turned away from her for a moment, pacing a little and balling his fists. She pushed further.

"When you made that comment about Quentin-" she stopped, all at once afraid of the territory they were in.

A dead silence fell between them as he looked off into the distance while she continued to stare resolutely at him.

"I know. I'm sorry." He pleaded. "I'm sorry." He repeated, looking dejectedly at his feet.

A voice rose up from inside her and said words that she never would have dreamed of saying before that night. They too carried a loss in them and her tone was splintered and dry from the cold and the emotion.

"Even Ed told me I looked nice tonight."

The words dropped like stones into a pond. They could both feel the implications of the comment radiating outward, washing over them. Hawkeye threw her hands up feeling suddenly pathetic and bit back the urge to cry. It must be the drink, she thought, the two of them standing screaming at each other. It was absurd.

Her breath hitched when she looked back to her superior. He looked so grave. He was staring at her, his black eyes weighing on her with a crushing intensity. He looked like he was in the middle of solving the world's most difficult alchemic equation, his face set in a grotesque scowl. She could see his hands were shaking. He looked like the ghost of the little boy who showed up at her father's house all those years before, so ardent and fine. A terrible guilt gripped her at that moment. His shaking hands, so incongruous with his character were a stark reminder of her ruthless pushing and added further weight to the lead in the pit of her stomach. She was compelled to quiet them and reached a hand forward to cease the fretting.

Before she could touch him, the back door swung open to reveal Ed and Madame Christmas. Both Riza and Roy blinked back with complete surprise, not knowing what to make of the unlikely pair looming at the threshold.

"Hey Colonel, your mother says you're a dab hand at the piano. I think she must be getting you confused with someone of some talent though!" Ed said, swinging carelessly on the door frame.

"Not now, Fullmetal." Mustang said when he finally found his voice.

"Roy darling, come in and treat us to your playing. I didn't spend half my annual takings on your time at the conservatory only for you to act bratty when someone asks you for a tune." Christmas added, half in jest and half with an air of authority. Ed laughed at the word 'bratty' now knowing where the Colonel picked it up when referring to him.

"Come on, Colonel." The voice of Breda joined in. Followed by a few more requests.

Mustang could hear people muttering about his playing inside the house.

"I'm classically trained and don't know anything popular. It would bore you all to tears." He found himself wishing for his gloves, he was so angry at the interruption. "Ask one of the girls."

"Get in and play for goodness sake, child. Poor Riza looks chilled to the bone." Christmas scolded, clearing room for his passage to demonstrate the inevitability of him coming in to play for them all.

Roy looked to Riza but she was looking away. The petulance wound its way into him again and his temper rose. He closed and opened his hands, staring at her for a few moments more, before he made his way towards the group at the door, picking up both glasses of wine and downing them as he went. He could hear his mother tut from behind him and more giggles from Ed. The shaking of his hands stopped as his stubbornness took him, his face settling into one of its masks.

As he made his way into the room he caught the eye of Hughes who shrugged at him with resignation. Hughes' face shifted to worry though as he caught sight of a hairline crack in his friend's otherwise flawless mask. He mouthed a 'you okay?' but it was lost on Mustang as he seated himself at the piano to the cheers of the others in the room. Mustang stood again, and removing his jacket to hand it to his mother, spotted Hawkeye make her way into the back of the room. A shadow of a look crossed his stoic features. He took a few moments to warm up his hands, allowing the conversation to start bubbling away again.

"This is going to be hilarious." Ed whispered to Winry but she was distracted, her eyes moving between the Colonel and his Lieutenant.

"I didn't know the Colonel could play." Falman said to Hughes.

"Oh sure he can." Hughes answered. "He trained at one of the best schools in the country before starting his alchemy. After that he was tutored on and off by Rudu Yao, one of the old masters. Christmas likes her household nice and multidimensional. You're in for a treat."

Hawkeye watched the Colonel flex his arms, the dull sheen of his pink waistcoat catching the light as his back muscles moved with the effort. She was still shell shocked from the altercation outside and were it not for the thick knot of people in the middle of the room, would have gladly made her exit. As it was though, she knew her leaving would create something of a stir and so opted to make herself remote at the back of the gang. It wasn't to last though as Vultee made his way next to her, two glasses in hand.

"I missed you before." He said with no trace of agenda. "I'm afraid that wretch, Jean Havoc made off with your wine and there's only white left. Care to?" He offered her a glass.

She looked at it for a long moment before taking it with a quiet, "Thanks."

"Are you okay?" Vultee asked, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

She smiled kindly at him and nodded her reassurance.

Not for the first time that night, an impatient Havoc cried, "Hurry up!" He was draped lazily over the back of one of the girls from the brothel.

Mustang's answer was to run his two hands up and down the length of the piano, effectively shutting the whole room up. He turned and smirked at Ed before turning back to the piano. Neither the sickness nor the anger had left him and he told himself he must remember to give Hughes the name of a good piano tuner in Central. Unfortunately, the instrument was about to become the victim of his vexation, the strength of which was sure to knock it out of tune. He thought back to Riza's hard profile as she refused to look at him and felt once again the torrent of her words, all of them he assumed to be true. No one knew him better than she did. He remembered also the sulk and strangeness of the mystery caller as well as his reaction to his subordinate's worry and tried to stop himself from dragging up the mess of regret and guilt that lay deep within him. A great hatred bit into his heart and he placed his hands on the keys.

He started the etude softly, picking out the individual notes of the melody, knowing full well that in doing so his audience would doubt his ability. He then repeated the melody with chords, gathering the expectations of the party about him like a cloak. Pressing coyly on one final chord he paused, took a steadying breath and then crashed into the first theme with unabashed violence. His fingers cascaded over the keys with breathtaking speed, the shift in volume making the whole room jump in shock. The individual movements of his right hand could barely be seen as they danced through the arpeggios with unnatural speed, while his left struck out the melody with such ferocity that the china in the cabinets shook.

Hughes looked on, the skill of his close friend doing nothing to abate his concern. Mustang looked like a man possessed. The sheer complexity and volume made Elysia shrink back behind her daddy's legs. Gracia grabbed Hughes' hand in complete shock at what she was hearing, touched but unsettled at the same time. The eyes of the entire room dampened at the unearthly discordance yet compelling beauty of the piece. Ed felt the hairs on his flesh arm rise up and he had to shake a shiver form his spine. Winry held her hands to her face and looked on in amazement.

Hawkeye felt faint. It was too much: the noise, the faces of the others as they watched, Mustang's erratic movements. He didn't look real and the sound washing across her couldn't possibly be created by him, one man. There could have been three pianists and she still would have been backing herself against the wall from the aural assault. She looked at Vultee to try to anchor herself in the incorrigible realness of him but he too was hypnotised by Mustang's playing.

Havoc's mouth was hanging wide open. In his bleary condition he couldn't differentiate between one of Mustang's hands and the other.

Fuery leaned close and asked Falman how much Mustang had had to drink. Falman, remembering that a couple of hours prior the man could barely speak, looked back at his young associate with impressed agreement.

As Mustang played he felt his eyes start to well up again and so he hammered even more forcefully on the keys, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Approaching the end of the piece, his hands leapt over the span of the keys but he felt his body grow rigid, succumbing to his anger and exhaustion. He felt claustrophobic and found it difficult to get a full breath. It was as though something was sitting heavily on his chest. Mustering the last of his energy he swept through the final theme of the piece and was on his feet before the final notes died. He slammed down the lid and stormed past the astonished onlookers who were still recovering from the performance and had yet to find the wit to clap.

Madame Christmas started the applause before turning to the room with an expression caught between pride for her son and embarrassment for his abrupt exit. "I think any musicians in the room will recognise and understand the strange recoil from a performance such as that. We must allow the birthday boy to play at being _divo_." She said with great diplomacy.

Hughes made to follow Mustang out the front door but was stopped by the appearance of Hawkeye at his side.

"Please. Let me." She took his elbow and petitioned him with a fraught look.

Hughes nodded and watched her leave. For the second time that night he brightened up the atmosphere of the room with an appeal to Madame Christmas to play an old burlesque number.

Pleased by the tactics to safeguard the esteem of her adopted son, she consented with a flourish.

* * *

Hawkeye found Mustang standing with his back to the house and his head in his hands. It was her turn to approach him with caution. She moved in front of him, knowing he was too engrossed in his poisonous introspection to have noticed her presence.

She was a woman known more for her actions than her words and so, staying true to herself, chose not to say anything but to instead tease his hands from his face. He reacted with a sharp breath but remained silent. He looked like he was about to pass out, his eyes seeming too unfocused and his face even paler than usual.

"Oh Roy." She said simply and dropped her forehead against the hard surface of his chest. She felt like crying and laughing all at once. She was utterly flummoxed by what had happened to them, by what was still happening to them.

For a moment they were both very still until she felt his chin come to rest on the crown of her head and his right hand run the length of her spine before resting in the nape of her neck. His left found purchase on the small of her back and he pulled her to him. He was shivering violently and she could feel the hammer blows of his heart pound through the front of him. She in turn wrapped both her arms around him and pulled him closer still. They stayed like that for what could have been a lifetime before she heard Roy take a long, shuddering breath. She heard him swallow and felt the minute mechanisms of his body tick away inside him.

"Riza," he began in barely a whisper, "I am so very sorry."

Riza smiled into the front of his waistcoat, maintaining her position. "I know." She answered.

He took another long breath and held it for an inhuman length of time before letting it go with a low sigh. She could feel the hot breath run over the back of her neck. He was so totally still then that were it not for the beating of his heart, she would question whether he was still with her or not.

"Are you okay?" She asked, somewhat stupidly.

"No." He answered, the bottom of his chin pressing against her hair when he spoke. "I'm terrified."

"Of what, Roy?" She asked, wanting desperately for him to open up on his thoughts about the letter and the mention of his birth mother.

He didn't answer.

"Roy, what are you terrified of?"

Another breath then -

"Of my loving you." He answered without decoration.

She froze in his arms.


	5. Man on the Edge

**Disclaimer: **Fullmetal Alchemist, I don't own it.

Ta muchly to the wonderful **Southpaw** for being such a great help in proofing the piece and letting me know when I'm wandering far down the path of digression, vernacular and oh so silly oversights. ;)

Thanks also to RandomCheeses, Fudfoodle, GryphonWonder14, 4cherryblossoms, Felarof, Kotoni-chan, StarCatcher1858, Talbot-Stark, Dailenna and Jess Rap for your kind words.

* * *

Central Station, almost completely deserted and hollow with the cold of the evening appeared as a lofty hangar from another age as the last train from East City rolled up to its platform. A figure emerged from the back carriage, clutching his belongings to him fiercely in an attempt to ward off the bitter chill. His gait was tired as he followed the other passengers down the platform. He had been a very busy man after all. His trips between Central and East City, never mind his time in Xing, would be enough to exhaust him if he weren't so excited. He freed a hand and touched at the dry parch of his cheek, still red from the sting of desert sand.

He could see a delay ahead and knew instantly that the cause was a military check. Contraband was most commonly transported on the first or last trains and the military was making a show that they were trying their best to curb the smuggling. As he approached, one of the soldiers glanced at the traveller in such a way that left no doubt that he would be stopped and questioned.

The boys were young. Neither of them could have been over twenty-one. They stood like two statues on either side of the small opening to the platform, one fair and the other red, both straight backed and high chinned. They had a cockiness to them that suited their youth, armed not only with rifles but with an arrogance of militant thuggery.

"Stop there." The redhead said, waving a hand with a limp disinterest.

The man stopped and nodded with deference.

"Name and identification." The soldier demanded, holding his palm out for the document. The traveller fussed in his coat pocket for his documentation and handed it over.

"Nestor Mot." The solider read out, his companion sniggered at the name. "You poor bastard."

"It's from-"

"Yeah, yeah," the blond cut in, not in the mood for a genealogy lesson, "Where are you coming from tonight, Mot?"

"East City, sir." Mot answered, his heart tightening and his calm liable to evaporate, but he forced himself to continue with his pantomime as a timid traveller.

"You have a stamp from Poyntzpass here ..."

Mot could tell they were being obtuse. As a border town, Poyntzpass had made something of a name for itself. Opium was an issue, as well as human trafficking, but a lone traveller coming from there should hardly arouse suspicion, especially travelling as he was by passenger rail and not freight. He was losing resolve to indulge the two characters but chose to stick to a vague interpretation of the truth to best appease them.

"Yes, sorry. I was doing some research there and was lucky enough to catch a ride going back to East City before I caught the last train here. I'm a collector."

The redhead looked directly at him, "That so? What do you collect?"

Mot had to suppress a smile. "Rare birds. The cadavers. I stuff them."

The blond growing tired of talking to such a torpid man as Nestor Mot looked at his colleague with an unimpressed expression. The redhead handed the identification papers back to Mot.

"You're free to go, _Nestor_." He mocked. The blond blew out a laugh, a small cloud of breath bursting out of his mouth.

Mot thanked them with a few sycophantic bows before sloping off towards the exit. He smiled to himself, rather proud of comparing his quarry to a rare bird. He thought it very fitting and imagined for a moment he was holding the trembling, fragile body of a very fine creature in his two hands, blue/black plumage glistening with the frantic beats of its tiny heart. He, the master of its fate, possessed the power to save it or to snap its neck with the smallest of movements.

He made his way into the night, his ambition swelling in his breast and warming him against the freezing air.

* * *

Hawkeye didn't say anything, her arms didn't hold him any closer and there was no gentle sigh or tender touch. She remained still and quiet, locked in the embrace and not daring to move.

"Nothing." Mustang said quietly and she couldn't be sure if it was a question or a statement. The word was full of dejection, of shame.

Hawkeye felt his calloused fingers come away from her neck and stop for a moment on her cheek before the presence left her altogether and she was assaulted by a rush of cold air at her front. Paralysed as she was with mouth dry and arms stiff, she managed to look on the back of her Colonel as he made his way up the steps and disappeared into the house.

He had said the impossible. Just as a great taboo lingered in the shadows of every alchemist's mind, it seemed there existed another for Riza Hawkeye and her Colonel. Questions shot through her mind as quickly and surely as gunfire - How long, if at all? Could it be? Where could it be? In what way, in what world could _they_ possibly _be_?

What had she felt as she watched him rage at the piano? Watching him, listening to him was so absolutely devastating, so terrible and so beautiful at the same time, that she thought she would pass out. Was that love?

There was a time when there was no doubt in her mind that she loved him but over the years she had learned to apply the poultice of reason and quiet her feelings. What she had managed to reduce those feelings to was hard to describe; infatuation, loyalty, familiarity – no word seemed sophisticated enough to capture them. Had the Colonel been practising the same restraint? Had they both been burying land mines all these years only for Roy to step on one tonight?

She couldn't think straight. How could she return to the party and look at him making charades of birthday joviality as she knew he would?

She decided that it was only proper that she should return to the house, get her things and bid everyone a pleasant and inconspicuous farewell.

* * *

The Grassmarket area of Central's old town was unusually quiet as Mot passed through the cold of night. The lights of the bars and brothels were dulled by the freezing fog that hung above the shining pavements and only a few groups of men or the occasional couple stumbled their way past him. A Friday night usually saw the area full of life, fights and messy throngs of youthful revellers but the cold succeeded in keeping most people indoors.

The great Mercat Cross thrust its way out of the fog ahead of him and made a shadow of itself against the navy of the sky. Though executions had not been carried out at the cross for some years it held fast to its terror, iron pikes stabbing out of the vast granite pillar like rotted fangs. Those pikes once served to showcase the bloodied limbs of past felons, murderers and dissidents and time did nothing to erode their morbid value. Mot slowed as he approached the foot of the towering monument, running a hand along the glistening, black stone. He shuddered as he looked up the length of the pillar, the angle of his stare making the construct seem as though it was leaning toward him, dangerously close to toppling. He was broken from his observation by the soft scratching of feet on gritted pavement behind him.

He spun away from the pillar to look on nothing but the empty street. He could hear the distant sound of glasses clinking and people chattering in the doorway of one of the brothels further along the street but other than that the night was muted. Mot took a final, straining look up and down the length of the Grassmarket before leaving the Mercat Cross with newfound briskness.

Turning off the main thoroughfare and into a dark, cobbled close, Mot heard again the faintest sound of boot on grit. He considered pausing at the top of the alley for a moment and sneaking a look around the corner but his good sense told him to push on towards his boarding house. Another person may have told himself that his mind was playing tricks on him and that he was overreacting but Mot knew better than that. He knew that if he thought he was being followed then there was every chance he was. His quarry was a precious one and he wasn't alone in his pursuit of it.

Every now and then he chanced a glance over his shoulder only to be met once more with cold masonry and soupy fog. The alley wound its way downhill into the Canongate area where his lodgings were situated. The gentle slope turned into broken steps that cut their way unevenly between the mottled, white buildings of the old town. Mot had to brace himself against the wall to stop himself from slipping, one hand still clinging preciously to his belongings. As he picked his way down the steps he felt a wash of hot breath on his neck, he turned violently on his heel and cursed when again he was met with emptiness. Turning back with heart racing, he screamed when he saw, not even an inch from him, a pale, bloated face halved with a grin.

* * *

Mustang entered the house in a daze. He closed the door with numb fingers and tried to make his way up the hall but felt himself drift against the wall. His head swam, desperately churning up excuses he could lay in front of his Lieutenant to say, 'I didn't mean it. I was only joking.' He couldn't imagine what this would mean for them both and found himself thirsting for a bottle of whiskey. He reasoned that he need only spend thirty or forty minutes faking at revelling before he could politely make his exit back to the confines of his own home. He recalled with an embarrassed groan that he had also stormed out of the lounge like a maniac and would have to take a few blows on the chin about being a dramatic wretch. He remembered that back in the academy he had occasionally been referred to as 'teacup', alluding to his being a storm in one. He further remembered that Vultee had carved that particular alias into the stock of his first rifle on one of their early drunken expeditions. He made a 'pff' noise thinking about his erstwhile service man. He scowled at the thought that he felt even vaguely threatened by the man, a man who Hawkeye hadn't seen in what must have been years. Mustang saw her everyday, was accomplished, high ranking, talented and driven. Vultee, now running his own contracting business was a shadow of Mustang and his achievements. But as he thought on his old comrade - bright, light hearted, his own boss, tall, fair, fun, uncomplicated, straightforward, honest – Mustang realised that it was he who was the shadow.

He heard footsteps and looked up to see Hughes approaching with a sad smile and two brandy glasses.

"Where is she?" He asked.

Mustang had to laugh at his friend's unhidden suspicion. If Hawkeye was missing, it followed that Mustang must have upset her.

"She's outside." He answered in tart voice.

Hughes gave Mustang a withering look and moved to open the door, not believing the man would leave her standing in the cold. He was stopped by the grip of his friend.

"Please, Hughes. Please keep that woman away from me." He said with a beseeching look.

Mustang felt himself being taken roughly by the arm and led up the stairs into a bedroom. A drink was thrust into his hand and Hughes closed the door behind them before turning and glaring at him with his right foot tapping. Mustang looked awkwardly about him before sitting himself on the bed.

"Keep her away from you?" Hughes asked.

Mustang's response was a tired nod and a long, silent sip of the brandy.

"Roy, what happened? Is she okay?" He paused. "Are you okay?"

Mustang laughed bitterly. "Am I okay? This is sounding very familiar."

Hughes was trying hard not to grow impatient with the man in front of him who was behaving like a spoilt child. To show up at his own party in the state he was in, insulting his dearest subordinate, playing an angry and flamboyant piece on the piano and storming out on top of that – Roy Mustang could get away with a lot but to try at such games in Maes Hughes' own home was just too much. Sick of circumspection, Hughes decided to strike at the core.

"Okay, Roy. That's okay. You keep quiet and have me, your friend who – incidentally - threw you this fucking party, run around you like an imbecile trying to guess why you're in such a foul mood."

Mustang leant forward putting his head in his right hand and holding the drink lazily with his left. Hughes thought he could hear the word 'imbecile' being repeated under the muzzle of Mustang's fingers.

"You're just so – _oblivious_, aren't you? You can remain enigmatic and mysterious, wearing your damn masks while everyone else tries hard just to keep their heads, and damn it, your head above the water. Do you even realise-"

Mustang stood suddenly saying, "I have to go ..." in a shaking voice. This was fast becoming a second verbal beating and in the state he was in, he didn't feel capable of rolling with the punches.

"Sit down, Roy!" Hughes said derisively, as though speaking to a teenager who was being disobedient.

Mustang made to move off but was stopped by Hughes' hand on his shoulder.

"Please Hughes, I can't -" He started not able to look the man in the eye.

"Don't be such an ingrate and sit down. You have guests downstairs so the least you can do is get your act together, go down, and thank them for coming, before you stoat your way home in a sulk."

Mustang lowered himself back to the bed and feeling the line rehearsed from earlier spoke with a tiredness that could easily be confused with apathy. "I don't care about the guests, Hughes."

"Well you should before I call you for being a selfish prick. Those people down there are your friends and family, people who love you and try their best to look after you."

If Mustang couldn't end the conversation by request he would try to end it by subversion. He actually considered making a dash for it but knew his legs weren't up to the job. Instead he let that same hatred bite at him, it was like a valve in his very middle, this venom in him that seemed to appear from nowhere. It scared him but anaesthetised him at the same time, making him feel hateful and numb all at once.

"I need a lot of looking after it seems. I never realised. Thank you, Hughes so very much for your swaddling and your coaxing and your charity." Mustang spat the words out with a precision one sometimes finds in drink. "Had I known being in my company was such a burdensome chore I would have arranged a stipend for you."

"I know what you're trying to do you weasel, you crooked little farce -" Hughes spat back, really feeling like he was beginning to lose it. Mustang's face fell for a moment then became hard again when he took another drink, his eyes gloating from over the top of the glass.

"'Crooked little farce' – that's nice, Hughes. Very creative, well done." Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Anything else you would like to get off your chest?"

"There is actually." Hughes said plainly. "I want to talk about what happened earlier. What was that before? When you dropped the glass?"

Mustang studied the back of his hand, flexing his fingers as he spoke. "Nothing. People drop things, Hughes. I'm sorry I broke your glass."

Hughes stared, anger still mounting. "Stop it." He squeezed out before calming himself a little. "We need to talk about this, Roy. Your nerves -" he began but was interrupted by Mustang's glib response, his gaze still averted.

"- are frayed, Hughes. You ask a man to a party and then wring him out with your psychological profiling. You could have saved yourself the bother and posted me a questionnaire."

Hughes sucked in a long breath to stop himself from boiling over. If there was something that could be said for Mustang it was that he was _good_ at pushing buttons. Hughes was fighting hard to keep a hold of his temper as he looked at his friend's challenging smirk.

"Getting a straight answer out of you is like pulling teeth, isn't it?" Hughes said, cocking his head with eyes narrowed.

Mustang looked as though he was about to speak but the words died on his lips. Again the memory of the screaming voice, the smooth teeth and the disturbing note slammed into him. He felt that same sensation on his chest, as though there was a great stone weighing down on it. He gasped without air and it felt as though he hadn't drawn breath in lifetimes. He felt the room tilt as an image rushed into his mind. A tiny, raven haired woman sat slumped against a wall looking at him with desperation, her delicate fingers brushing hair from his eyes. Her face was wet and drawn and awful to look at. The whites of her eyes had turned to pink and her mouth was scabbed and ruined. She spoke to him in a language he couldn't possibly have known and yet he understood: 'I love you – I love you – I love you' over and over again as her sore mouth worked. It was like he was remembering the meaning rather than understanding the syllables of her words. He felt a coldness drive into his belly as his tongue began to tingle and with a sickening lurch he felt himself pitch forward off the bed. The glass tumbled from his hand.

Hughes rushed forward and caught him by the shoulders. He eased his friend back, his hands lingering as Mustang's eyes rolled back momentarily in his head. Setting down his drink, Hughes looked anxiously at the door, then back to Mustang, repeating his name a few times. He took his chin in one hand and tapped him lightly on the cheek with the other, still calling to him. That seemed to coax him from his episode. Mustang coughed out a hoarse bout of laughter as the last fragments of the memory died in his mind.

"Oh -" he moaned through his ragged laughter. "What a terrible day."

"Why terrible?" Hughes asked, forgetting that he wanted to throttle the man only seconds before. "Those moments you had downstairs, when you froze - what happened today? What did I miss, friend?" He asked, and made to brush a slick strand of hair out of Roy's eyes but the gesture was batted away sharply.

Hughes bit his lip and looked long and hard at his friend on the edge of the bed. How was it that Roy Mustang looked so small all of a sudden? He was a vision of pity with tired eyes, stained trousers and slumped shoulders.

"Before I tell you this, you have to promise me you won't go crazy ..." Mustang began and sulked when he saw Hughes shake his head: no, he couldn't promise that. Mustang sighed and continued nonetheless, "I received a letter today and it shouldn't have meant anything, I mean – it _doesn't _ mean anything but I can't get it out of my head. There was a phone call too …"

He was met with a silence that indicated he should continue.

"There's no way to start this that doesn't sound absurd."

More silence.

"You know I don't know my birth mother, I know nothing about her from memory. Not one iota. Christmas was never keen on telling me and I've never been eager to know. Couldn't have cared less, in fact." A small cough offered Roy the chance to muster himself. "This letter, there was a note saying the … contents were a gift from 'mum'. In the envelope, there were teeth."

"Teeth?" Hughes asked, the cogs in his mind starting to turn over the observations he had shared with the Elric brothers. He was thankful in a way that Christmas had chosen to conceal the burglary of her house from Mustang. It occurred to him at that moment that the sense of dread he had been feeling recently, in a very primal way, was telling him that they were standing at the beginning of another long road. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but he had the same sensation when Scar came into their lives, and the Elrics for that matter. Something about Mustang's countenance was so ominously timid and reluctant that night, like a child hiding under the covers, that it made Hughes feel again that this was his dear friend and comrade, his little brother if he allowed himself the cliché.

"Roy," he coaxed, "human teeth? Are you sure?"

"Yes - human teeth. And, like I said, the letter implied that -" Roy pulled at the high collar of his shirt and cleared his throat, "- they were my birth mother's teeth. Then there was the phone call from the sender. He was raving and yet … so sullen. It really shocked me and I can't shake this feeling that this is bigger than lunacy or imbecility – that this could be the beginning of something awful."

Anger brimmed up in Hughes' face as the feeling of injury on his friend's behalf rose in him. He was irked too that Mustang hadn't said anything before but there again Hughes had made some findings of his own and had said nothing of them.

"Listen, Hughes," Roy said weakly, "I know I can't take this lightly. I thought I could, but I'm not managing it, or anything, very well. It's been a tough few weeks. Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Hughes shook his head violently, "Absolutely not. I'm going to get the Lieutenant." Mustang caught his arm desperately almost falling from the bed a second time.

"I am telling you -" he looked straight into his friend's green eyes, "I cannot do this now. Tomorrow. I promise." As a leverage of sorts, he kept hold of Hughes' arm, feeling very childish. He felt like he hadn't quite won the reason of the man though and so knew that he would have to sacrifice something worthy to entice him to stay. As with Hawkeye, he realised that honesty was all he had.

"No." Hughes repeated and started to leave but was stopped by the quietest of voices, so quiet it sounded like it was someone else speaking from deep inside Mustang. He turned to see that Mustang had picked up his glass of brandy.

"I have a recurring dream that I'm leaning into the cavity of a great volcano. I'm ready to plunge forward and I can feel the heat rising up all around me, until it's filling every pore." Roy moved his hand about him in demonstration before letting it settle over his eyes. "I should be falling … my angle is such that I should be falling, but I don't. If I look to my left and right I can see others disappear over the lip of the volcano and they burn up instantly in its heat. It's this _awesome_ heat, Hughes, I can't even describe." Mustang looked at him then, trying his best to convey the intensity of sensation. "I can only reason that if I don't fall where the others do, something must be behind me, pulling me back. I turn my head and see a host of people behind me, arms outstretched. Havoc, my mother – foster …" he stuttered briefly, "… Madame Christmas, even Ed." He smiled at Hughes. "I've often dreamed that you catch me by the arm, or Riza -" he moved to take another drink and stopped again.

"Go on." Hughes said with encouragement.

Mustang looked shy for a moment before taking a drink and continuing. "I feel that tonight, and – yes, definitely longer than tonight – the fingers of my comrades are peeling back. That perhaps I am driving you back." Mustang downed the remainder of the drink while Hughes grimaced. "That sounds ridiculous. Sorry. I'm drunk."

Hughes smiled, satisfied at his friend's confession while feeling somewhat guilty for forcing such honesty out of a man who existed behind smokescreens and veils. He sat down next to Mustang.

"You're definitely drunk my grey haired, old friend but that doesn't sound ridiculous at all, in fact, I have a very similar dream."

Mustang looked at him expectantly. "Oh?"

"Except in my dream, I'm not pulling you back from anything. I'm pushing you forward, Roy. Do you understand?"

He nodded quietly with complete understanding.

"Promise me we'll talk about this tomorrow. With Riza." Hughes said, seeing his friend's face darken with the mention of the Lieutenant.

"I suppose I'm going to have to, aren't I? I never realised you had the whole 'scary' thing down, Hughes but you're pretty good. I never thought you were so brutally eloquent."

He then laughed and motioned to take another drink before realising his glass was empty.

"You're a lousy host, you know that?" Roy said with mock ire. "And there were three grey hairs in total. Three!"

"One for each decade."

Mustang swiped his hand up and knocked Hughes' glasses off his nose and onto the floor by their feet. "Shut up you blind, old dog."

Hughes barrelled out a laugh and grabbed Mustang by his shoulder and head forcing him onto the bed and searching through the mess of black hair pretending to look for more grey, though he could barely see without his glasses. He counted out the imaginary greys to his friend. Mustang writhed and shouted under the attack, laughing all the while and forgetting, for the moment, the woman he loved.


	6. The Morning After

**Disclaimer: I don't own the work of genius that is Fullmetal Alchemist.**

Thanks to the supreme beta-rific scrutiny of **Southpaw.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Nestor Mot struggled to collect his breath as the terrible whiteness of Ahu Kamaka's ruined face pulled away from him. The fiendish grin remained, cutting a line from cheek to cheek across the canvas of her pale skin. As his shock faded, his recognition of the woman grew, but did nothing to alleviate the anxiety.

Ahu Kamaka was an alchemist of staggering prowess and had a cruel streak to match her talents. Her chosen alchemy was as odd as it was brutal, and Mot had been an unfortunate witness to its application on more than one occasion. She was his former alchemy tutor and in fact, it was under her tutelage that Mot had first been made aware of his quest. His studies in the back of her house would often be interrupted by the sound of her raving about the terrible loss of a unique and divine gift, the mystical words she used full of terror and promise. She would spout words like 'precious', 'cursed' or 'tragic', the romanticism of the topic luring him into a tempered curiosity but throwing her into the most ferocious tempers. He would jump as a chair was flung across the room or a frustrated scream shattered the quietness of his work. There would be long periods of tense silence followed once again by the sound of his master screaming at nothing but shadows or dusty old books, "Where did you put yourself, you damned beast?"

Kamaka would alternate between periods of manic obsession with the matter and times when she would brush the whole thing off as silly legend and rumour, paradoxically placating her thirst with her own doubt. Mot knew though, that if something was upsetting his tutor so profoundly, then it was worth some attention. Occasionally, Kamaka would neglect to put away her notes and he would find spidery scribbles or intricate arrays lying about her room. The details in the notes were as miniscule and as messy as the hand they were written in but Mot knew his tutor to be a woman of some recklessness and decided even then, that if _he_ were to seek the subject of her arduous investigation, he would surely succeed.

He decided that he would do his best to put the issue as far away from his thoughts as he could until the time came when he left her guidance and struck out on his own. From then on, he committed himself to the pursuit of this _gift_, working piecemeal to satisfy only hunger and shelter, believing his reward would not be of material gain. Leaving her tutelage as he did, outwardly ignorant of her obsession and innocent of her theory as far as she knew, he thought that he could perhaps escape any scrutiny by her. It appeared though that he wasn't so lucky. Of all the people who could have caught up with him, she was the worst.

"Nestor, darling. It's good to see you." She said in a sweet voice, her vast body leaning coquettishly against the wall.

Mot said nothing.

"Darling you look frightened but we both know you shouldn't be surprised to see me. We are after the same thing after all and our paths were sure to cross sometime. Mm?"

Mot clutched his belongings tighter to him before answering. "Do you even know what it is you seek, Kamaka?"

Her great mass rushed towards him and he found himself inches from the buttery expanse of her face once more.

"Show some respect, Mot before I make pebbles out of you." She spat.

Mot knew it from the outset, that if Kamaka ever caught up to him it would no longer be his search alone. His only allowance of freedom had been in his play of ignorance and from the moment his tutor had found out his machinations, whenever and however that might have been, the game had been up. She may have been reckless but she was ruthless too, and his pursuit of his quarry would only have served to confirm to her that she was right to have obsessed. She was an alchemist of no mean talent and his heart fell in the realisation that there was no way out. He saw first-hand what her alchemy could do to people and he was not willing to make himself victim to it. She wanted this just as badly as he did, she had him pinned and his research would now be hers.

"So-" she began, still with velvety voice, "where has he put himself then? Tell me where he is, Mot." She leaned back casually against the wall, the movement of her skirt making waves in the fog.

"I can't be sure. It's only a theory."

"A theory that has brought you all the way to Central..."

Mot gestured that they should start walking, he needed to get moving, to feel as though he still had some control of his mission.

"You really have no idea? Your following me hasn't given you any clues?" He spoke without needing to look back to check if she had followed, he could hear her wet breaths coming from close behind him.

"Darling, speak to your teacher. I love you as I loved all my students and can help you in your goal. We can _share_ in this."

Mot laughed. "Teacher please. Let's not pretend I have a choice."

She laughed knowingly. "In that case, please begin."

Mot spoke slowly, wanting to withhold so much but knowing that it could be dangerous for him if she found him out. He quite openly ridiculed her naivety in presuming that the gift would be enclosed in something material and went into great detail describing his reasoning that what they sought was in a some_one_ rather than a some_thing_. She stayed behind him as they walked, making grunts or laughing when he revealed something particularly surprising. They slowed and stopped as they approached the doorway of the lodgings, not wishing to be overheard in the lobby.

Kamaka stepped in front of him, her mass bearing down on him as she spoke. "So this little soldier is the resting place of Wei Po-Yang? Well, you must make yourself busy first thing tomorrow and find out how we can get close to him. If he's a soldier then surely we could lose him at any time."

Mot smiled warmly to himself, pleased with the shadowy relationship he had built between himself and Mustang. "I can't be sure it's him until I can experiment with my array but just wait until you see my research – there's nothing little about Mustang. Po-Yang has chosen the finest and most sophisticated host you could imagine." Mot grew excited, smiling up at his old teacher. "He's like one of those expensive Xingese vases you used to collect. In their day, you said they were used to store the mummified hearts of dead royalty."

Kamaka considered this for a moment, a grin creeping onto her face again. "You know the most troublesome thing about those vases, Mot?"

"Mm?" He asked with some disinterest.

"You had to smash them to get anything out of them."

* * *

To wake naturally, without alarm or interruption is a rare but pleasant occasion.

Riza Hawkeye, seduced to waking by the bright winter sun, stretched herself under her crisp, clean blankets. She could feel the cold of the morning brush against her cheeks, and the weight of her dog Hayate curled tightly against her middle. The dog, roused by her moving, stretched himself and padded up to her face clumsily. Though her eyes were closed, she knew the dog would be staring at her, willing her to wake up and start playing. She kept her eyes closed to tease him, trying her best not to smile. Any movement at all would give the game away and the dog would be on her in a flash, licking and pawing at her face. She heard the animal whine and shift himself anxiously, the heat of his keen eyes still on her. She lunged, grabbing at his neck but missing him by a breath as the dog jumped back reflexively. After some ducking and swiping, she managed to catch him by the collar as he raced forward to nip at her playfully. They wrestled for a while, the master laughing and the dog barking with excitement. It wasn't a bad way to start a Saturday, all things considered, and it offered a nice distraction from the feeling that she was spending another weekend waking up alone.

She told herself she wouldn't think on the happenings of the night before, that she would move on with her weekend, happy in her time alone and away from the Colonel. His confession was too explosive for her to deal with at that moment. To process _that_ would take more energy than she had, so she opted to file it away, well accustomed to packing up her feelings for Roy Mustang. She frowned when she realised just how good she had become at performing that feat before swiftly brushing that thought to the side as well.

She dressed quickly, before tidying a little and making herself a large breakfast. She collected the paper from the front step while she waited for her eggs to boil, tutting at the front page. "FLEEING PROTESTOR SHOT IN BACK" it read. With breakfast prepared and in front of her, she ploughed through the paper, starting with the headline story. A group protesting a Cretan border dispute was dispersed by the military, one of the party being shot in the back as he tried to escape arrest. He died some hours later in the hospital, the paper reported, adding that it was the young man's first protest. Hawkeye grimaced at the sad predictability of the story, knowing that the anti-riot forces in the military were concerned only with putting a stop to any forms of dissension. These things were often a case of 'sticks and stones' versus riflemen and brutes. Preservation of life was not particularly high on their list of priorities.

Moving further through the paper she scanned the event forecast for the week ahead, looking for one item in particular: the somewhat unimaginatively dubbed, 'NationTalk'. On the last Tuesday of every month, Central Amestrian Radio hosted a debate between some of the biggest or most controversial names in society. The show focussed on everything from politics to social scandal and was broadcast nationwide, as well as a transcript going to print in Amestris' biggest papers the following morning. The producers would usually select strong personalities from either side of the debate: a ruthless journalist or someone with a personal involvement in the issue, the combination rarely failing to deliver a debate full of fireworks. The upcoming issue was the major change in military policy that lowered the minimum age of enlistment from sixteen to fifteen. It was an ongoing discourse that began, unsurprisingly, when Edward Elric first stepped into the limelight. Though his case was considered a 'special arrangement', it generated a dialogue ranging from what constituted a 'child' to the ethics of military force.

Hawkeye had taken a call from the Fuhrer himself at the beginning of the month requesting Mustang's involvement in the event. The imperious man made it clear that 'request' was operating as a byword for 'order', meaning that the Colonel was expected to participate in the debate and dazzle the audience with zero reservation. She didn't blame Furher Bradley either, Colonel Mustang was the perfect addition to the debate, having enlisted himself when he was only seventeen, as well as being the man responsible for introducing Edward Elric to the world. The Fuhrer, of course, was also banking on Mustang's youth, charm, hero status, and most importantly, his willingness to impress and mollify the higher ups.

As a counterweight to the Colonel, the Fuhrer was putting forward Brigadier General Lockheed. The addition surprised Hawkeye as she considered Lockheed to be the antithesis of a good soldier and probably the last man she would choose to represent the military. He was selfish, lazy, and held an unforgivable disregard for his more junior colleagues. Most staff knew of one particularly bad rumour from Ishbal wherein the Brigadier General had radioed in an offensive order to his troops while he 'convalesced' from a bullet wound in his upper arm. He lost fifteen of his men, amongst them his Colonel who had apparently fought the order until court martial was threatened.

Hawkeye could only imagine that Lockheed was included in the line-up because of his age and social standing. She supposed he was a relic of sorts and would represent an unshakeable aspect of the military. She gave some credit to the Fuhrer in that by having such polar personalities on the panel, he would showcase a nuanced and yet uniformed military, knowing that both men would profess a love for their country and sing his praises as supreme leader of it. Whoever happened to loose face in the debate would no doubt receive a sharp rap on the knuckles and she was more than a little worried about Mustang. The man had a propensity for letting his caustic tongue be the master of his reason and he would have to be very careful in his dealings with Lockheed. It could go either way.

The third guest was somewhat unknown to her. He was described in the paper as 'saucy, seditious journalist, Kirk Clifford.' Hawkeye's lip turned up as she read his comments about the upcoming debate. "Am I worried?" the quote read, "Can one be worried about facing a dog on a leash? They'll threaten to tear me apart but behind their muzzles they're harmless. Trust me." She read on, muttering as she did. "Lockheed is an afterthought. He's a tired old war horse that needs to be put out to pasture. I'm intrigued by this Mustang character though. I've read quite a lot about him and I find his thoughts on the State curious. I think we have a lot to say to each other. He's an interesting person and I'm looking forward to a good _war_ of words. Pardon the pun." Hawkeye slammed down the paper and finished her coffee in two loud gulps. She glanced down to a bored looking Hayate.

"Walk?" She asked and on hearing the word, the dog was on his feet instantly. He ran to the front door, jumping around in anticipation of the morning's walk.

She tidied the table after her breakfast and was pulling on her coat when the phone rang. Somewhat thankfully, she knew it couldn't possibly be the Colonel as he would be sleeping off what was certain to be a hellish hangover. She debated whether or not to answer before throwing open the latch of her door and making her way out into the cold.

* * *

There are only so many times a man can drag, carry, or drive a drunken friend home only to find the house locked and the friend without a key before the man will ask for a key of his very own. It was this pattern that allowed Hughes to creep into Roy Mustang's darkened, whiskey-scented house without request or permission. After trying to call Hawkeye with no success, Hughes decided to allow his friend a few extra hours in bed before he made his way over to him. However, despite it being past midday, he had to squint as he negotiated his way across the floor. Whether it was darkness or solitude Mustang cherished, they were both ensured by the heavy black-out curtains that covered almost every window in the house.

The large drawing room was decorated soberly, a chaise longue and two armchairs arranged on one side and the other dominated by a black baby grand piano. The walls could scarcely be seen for bookshelves, each crammed with texts. Off in a corner was a huge oak desk, covered in sheets of paper, open books and empty glasses. What little light did make its way into the room touched only the edges of the furniture and picked out a few particles of dust, making Hughes feel as though he had walked into a newly opened tomb in Xerxes or Creta.

He made his way through the drawing room and into the kitchen, dumping his bag of essentials for a hung over Roy Mustang: fresh coffee, cigarettes, the Saturday paper and all the foodstuffs necessary to make a hearty fry-up breakfast. The latter 'essential' was somewhat tenuously included as Mustang would either welcome the food with delight or throw the entire bag of groceries out the window while trying to refrain from projectile vomiting.

Making his way up the stairs, Hughes smiled to himself as he began to hear his friend's ragged snoring. He sucked in a breath and pressed down the handle of the bedroom door. Pushing the door inward, he could only snigger quietly at the figure sprawled out on the bed before him. Mustang lay across the bed in pyjama bottoms only (the shirt having been deposited in a heap on the floor), one arm wrapped tightly around a pillow and the other stretched out and over the edge of the mattress. His right leg was wound into a thick knot of sheets and his left was bent back and upwards at the knee. His head was pushed back into a second pillow with his larynx jutting into the air and his mouth hanging open. He looked like he'd been hit by a train and planted in the bed.

Hughes stepped silently towards the window and narrowly missed stepping on a wooden object lying next to the bed shirt. It was a violin. Despite Hughes having never heard Mustang mention, never mind _play_ the violin, its place in the room didn't surprise him in the slightest. The man devoured music almost as much as he did alchemy, though Hughes wondered where he found the time. With a young daughter to cajole and entertain, he barely had time to whistle let alone learn to play an instrument.

Avoiding the violin, Hughes reached the window and taking one last look at his peacefully slumbering friend, jerked open the curtains with a resounding, "Morning!"

Mustang yelled and bucked up and away from the bed so energetically that he almost disappeared over the other side of it. One arm was outstretched towards the corner of the room, ungloved fingers poised and ready to snap.

Hughes burst into a fit of laughter that deepened into hysterics when a wild-haired Mustang turned to face him with red eyes and complete disbelief, hand still pointed in the opposite direction. He screwed up his watery eyes in reaction to the sharp winter sunlight and fell back to the bed, pulling the covers up over him.

Hughes heard a withered voice coming from the depths of cotton.

"Why are you so _early_?"

Hughes looked at his watch, still laughing. "It's half-one, Roy!"

The heap of cotton made a broken, scratchy growl. "Exactly."

"Get up. Come on – I have eggs and bacon. Some nice bread too."

"Please don't. Why would you mention that _stuff_? I want to die. Where's the whiskey?" An arm snaked out of the sheets and made futile swipes for a glass of water on the bedside table. "Why are you _here_ in my room? This isn't right. Don't you have a child to bother?"

Hughes bent over and tried to pull the sheets off but they resisted.

"For crying out loud, Roy – get up." Hughes said, tugging a little more forcefully.

"Coffee first … I think I'm dying."

Hughes pulled at the sheets again. "Get up and chat with me while it's brewing."

"Make me." The shape answered obstinately and Hughes could see the mound move as Mustang nestled himself further into the soft blanketing. Hughes sighed and stared at the shape, mouth falling open in surprise when he heard the snoring start up again. Surely Roy Mustang couldn't fall asleep that easily?

Feeling a little neglected and quickly losing patience, Hughes grabbed a lump of material in each hand and wrenched the sheets back with every ounce of strength he had. Unfortunately, Mustang was so intimately entangled with the blankets, that Hughes' strength not only succeeded in pulling the sheets from the bed, but the occupant also. Both landed on the wooden floor, the former occupant with a colourful range of curse words.

Hughes stared down as Mustang struggled to collect himself and make sure his dignity was still intact. Finding that he was still safely inside his pyjama bottoms, he stood and glared at his friend for a beat before marching out the door towards the bathroom.

"Well at least it got you out of bed you rascal!" Hughes shouted after him, picking up the sheets and throwing them back on the bed.

When Mustang returned from the bathroom he found Hughes sitting on the bed, toying with the violin.

"Where do you find the time?" Hughes asked, holding the instrument by the neck.

"Why do people always underestimate how much time I have?" Mustang asked back and took the violin from him, plucking at a couple of strings before setting it aside. "It's one of the many benefits of not being able to get to sleep at night." He said through a yawn, scratching at an angry blemish of marbled scar tissue on his side.

"Still giving you bother?" Hughes asked, gesturing at the huge scar, one of many from his time in the military.

Mustang looked at it as though only seeing it for the first time before shrugging. "Only in the mornings," he said before lowering two very judgemental eyes at Hughes, "or after a tumble."

"It's a good look. I bet the ladies love it." Hughes said, standing with a stretch and a wink.

"Ugh – they paw at it and call me 'lamb'. Horrible. One girl asked if it was real." He said, still rubbing at it. He then ducked to pick up his bed shirt, about-faced and sloped off down the stairs, calling back, "I want breakfast! Where's the coffee? And cigarettes?"

Hughes followed, shaking his head at just how odd his old friend could be.

* * *

Nestor Mot couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the bill on the side of the Central City Chambers that read, "Central Amestris Radio presents NationTalk: _Dead Young?_ Featuring: LOCKHEED, CLIFFORD & MUSTANG." He rushed inside the venue and straight up to the box office.

"Two tickets to Tuesday's NationTalk please." He said, trying to hide how frantic he was feeling.

The disinterested clerk looked up from her paper and stared at him with disgust before pulling out a thin roll of tickets.

"Press, state or civ?"

"Press." He lied weakly, hoping it would help him achieve a closer seat.

"Two hundred." She held out her hand without looking him in the eye.

Mot fished through his pockets and finally gathered together the money. "That's expensive." He said, a little taken aback.

"Who cares if your editor is paying – if you're real journos that is ..." She said, smiling to herself as she dug out two separate tickets from the little roll. "We got some returns this morning and good thing for you too – all the press seats had sold out. You're lucky."

"I know." He answered with an honest smile, pushing the tickets into his pocket.

As Mot exited the building his mind started racing with ideas. Being so close to Mustang this early in his plan was an unexpected blessing. They would have to work very hard not to miss this special opportunity. It was as if it was meant to be.

* * *

Hawkeye's long walk took her in a great circle around the outskirts of the city. She passed through the busy wards, each thronging with early morning shoppers and families sightseeing from the country. Reaching the botanical gardens, she started into a light jog with Hayate keeping pace beside her. As she jogged through the chilly morning, she tried her best to think about the radio play she was going to tune into that evening and attempted to plan her Sunday lunch with her friend and fellow servicewoman, Rebecca. She tried to think if she needed to buy any food and then tried to remember the birthdays of everyone in the office. She even tried to think about the number of telephones in their building, the colour of Feury's underwear and Armstrong's inner leg measurement but try as she may, she couldn't stop thinking about that one, vain, childish, silly man – Roy Mustang.

She allowed herself for the briefest of moments to remember the embrace from the previous night before shaking the thought from her mind. She felt herself speeding up as a means of distraction and cut out of the park, heading for the busy west end district in the hope that navigating the crowds would help her forget the words of her Colonel.

As she passed excited families and trendy groups of young city dwellers, impressive theatres and stylish cafes, she actually started to feel a little more upbeat about the situation. Maybe she was letting herself get worked up too much. After all, she and the Colonel had known each other for years and that was the first time either of them had even suggested there might be something else bubbling beneath the surface. Why she had cared what he thought of her dress seemed utterly silly in the cold light of day. As for what he had said – there was just no buying it, no matter how much she wanted to. Hers was a childhood infatuation that had reared its ugly head in the heat of the moment, and his a drunken confession born out of guilt and loyalty. As she jogged on through the busy streets, she realised however, that she was merely deluding herself. When passing the City Chambers she got distracted by the two foot lettering of 'MUSTANG' in Tuesday's NationTalk sign and sent herself and Hayate crashing into a complete stranger.

They tumbled to the icy ground in a heap of blond hair, groceries and dog.

"I'm so sorry," Hawkeye panted out, trying to untangle the lead from around the stranger's legs, "I was a million miles away."

The man laughed and accepted Hawkeye's hand to help him to his feet. "Me too."

They both stood clumsily before Hawkeye noticed two tickets the man must have dropped. Bending to pick them up for him, she saw the name of her superior printed next to Clifford and Lockheed's. She smiled and handed them back to the very relieved stranger.

"Oh my word! Thank you. I couldn't have lost those – there are so few good seats left."

Hawkeye found herself unable to resist cautioning a question.

"So-" she started, slowly winding Hayate's lead tighter around her wrist. "What do you make of that Colonel Mustang then?"

The man's face lit up idiotically at the mention of his name, and she hoped in earnest that hers didn't look the same on hearing _that_ name.

"Wonderful, isn't he? So outstanding - exquisite really. I'm looking forward to seeing him in the flesh."

Hawkeye hadn't quite expected that response and she felt herself begin to blush on her superior's behalf; it was strange hearing someone talk about him that way. She questioned in what sense the man would like to see Mustang in the flesh before conceding that it wasn't as if the thought had never crossed _her_ mind.

"Well, perhaps we'll see each other there." She said kindly before saying a 'good bye' and jogging briskly back towards her house. It seemed that try as she may, she just couldn't lose the thought of Roy Mustang.

* * *

When Mot returned to his grubby lodgings, he found Ahu Kamaka poring over his notes with such concentration that she didn't seem to notice his entrance. He threw a newspaper at her, causing her to jolt and glare at him as he set out their meagre lunch noisily.

"You wanted me to find a way to get close to him? I recommend you turn to page twelve."

He watched with pride as he saw her face blossom with delight at the upcoming event. She looked at him with eyes wide and eager.

"You have tickets?"

Mot nodded. "On the aisle. I think I've come up with a rather creative way to get close to him too."

Kamaka smiled and reached a pale, chubby hand across the table towards the food. "Do tell..." she said before plucking a prawn from the plate and daintily popping it between her thick, cracked lips.


	7. Fatigue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. **My thanks to the patience of** Southpaw **for proofing.

Thanks also for the reviews chaps, muchly appreciated.

* * *

If a good student of alchemy were to look beyond their texts and into the fabric of their customs they would find a practice older than the word 'alchemy', older even than Amestris.

Across the world there existed a few masters of this nascent science, hungry minds in pursuit of a single, incommensurable truth. This pursuit was so new that it had yet to be captured in a single word, but wheresoever a master roamed, they were sure to inspire wonder or fear in the hearts of the people who encountered them. Some would lure the water upwards and out of the sea, teeming down salty rain on amazed onlookers. Others would build great forts out of the wet earth itself, split boulders in two and make flat earth were there had once been rough terrain.

In what was then known as the Kiangsu province of Xing, Wei Po-Yang was seated as the most venerable and ambitious of all the old masters. He forged a school in the centre of Kiangsu's provincial capital and would often hold audience with the emperor himself. He lectured on what was then understood to be the magical movements of the sun and moon, explaining that a more methodical process was at work – one of science and reason, not of gods and sorcery. His disciples would hang on his every word, going out into the world with a fire in their bellies to learn more.

As the years passed and Po-Yang watched his pupils grow up and move on, the bitter wind of mortality began to blow through his soul. He had so much to accomplish but already he could feel himself grow old and frail. His hair had turned from black to grey, and grey to white; his nails had grown long and his joints stiff but still his hunger for truth burned feverishly in his very being.

He began work on a thesis, using the still unstable art of arrays and diagrams to design a curtain through which he could slip into a new skin of possibility and vitality. He called the thesis the 'Pill of Immortality', comparing his work to a pill one might take for the illness that is 'mortality.' He was thorough and canny, selecting only his most talented students to work along side him. He knew that if he coached them correctly, they could carry his torch forward – they could _cultivate_ his science. While his teachings spread, he could lie dormant in the ether of unmarked time and await his rebirth into a world rich in the science of truth-seeking, a world that honored the science with the full respect it deserved.

Years later and even deeper in the clutches of old age, Po-Yang began to weigh the success of his ever growing school with the icy fingers of death. He was growing weaker by the day, and on some days he struggled to work at all. Though he would have liked to have perfected his methods more, the time had come for him to bid farewell to his students and propel himself into a future full of promise. He drew a vast array on the floor of the school and gathered his students about it.

"My students," Po-Yang began, "There is no more coaching I can give you. You must spread the blanket of all you have learned over the brightest and the most promising of our peoples. The science must survive. You must grow it: you must push it outwards – even to the flamboyant lands of Xerxes, bitter Ishbal and beyond. I, its father and the master of this house we call truth, will cast myself far into the future, ready to pluck our fruit when it is at its fullest and most liable to drop from the tree branch. This is the time when my science will need me the most. Longevity is the primary importance in this great triumph. Are we understood?" Po-Yang asked with pride and anxiety. He was met with a resounding 'Yes!' "Carry these small truths forward, plant them as seeds and I will be there, somewhere in the distance, waiting for the harvest."

Feeling it was finally time to bid their master farewell, some of the students grew anxious and scared. Po-Yang calmed them with his own confidence and stepped resolutely into the circle. He nodded to his most senior student who knelt, readying himself to activate the array. Po-Yang, turned to look at each of his students and smiled, "Careful study will open doors to secrets. Forge on. Good-bye."

With tears in his eyes, the student slammed his palms down on the array. The room exploded in a ferocious column of blue light. The students screamed for their teacher as they watched him begin to dissolve before them. Soon there was nothing but a ringing in their ears and a few remaining wisps of matter, drifting upwards and out into the future.

* * *

Eighteen Eighty-Five was the hottest year recorded that decade. The streets of Shaoshan, a small city in southern Xing, shimmered with the heat, the tar bubbling on the roads and roof tops. The grasses in the gardens had turned yellow and dogs lay stretched out, panting heavily on the stoops of the low houses.

None though, could surely be feeling the heat more than Fu Shi. She was only fifteen but had enough sense to know that a girl in her seventh month of pregnancy should _not_ be hauling a sack of sweet potatoes in each hand. She stopped and wiped her brow, cursing the sweat that kept dripping into her eyes. She placed one sack on top of the other and sat down heavily on her makeshift chair.

A couple of businessmen strode by, looking at her with pity and gossip written clearly on their faces. One of them shouted back, "Whore," before they both exploded into laughter, one slapping the other on the back.

Shi popped a hand into the sack under her and drew out a sweet potato. Closing one eye, she took aim and flung the hard, pink vegetable. It hit one of the men clean on the back of the head. As he shouted and turned in surprise, she found purchase on another and managed to hit him on the nose with it.

He and his friend came marching towards her, shouting abuse as they did, cursing her for every whore and harlot of the century. She stood facing them with hands on hips, a smirk playing on her face and devilment dancing behind her black eyes.

One of the men grabbed her roughly by the chin and spat in her face, the warm spit feeling even more repulsive in the dry heat of high summer. Shi repressed a scream, not wishing to give them any satisfaction. Instead, she slapped the man with one hand as her other snaked into his belt and removed his silk handkerchief. She wiped her face roughly with it and threw it back at him. Noticing her sleight of hand with a scowl, he reached back a hand to strike her.

She flinched and readied herself for the blow but before it came, she was hit by something far more terrible. A lancing pain shot through her stomach. The man's hand came down, but found nothing except air as Shi bent herself double, clutching at her stomach. She screamed out and tried to brace herself with one hand but the pain was sapping any strength she may have had. She buckled onto her knees, howling through tears as the white hot pain continued to stab at her. The men, who seconds ago were nothing but thugs, began calling for help.

Thick blood was already pooling around her. Her eyes rolled wildly as she was wrenched and torn by the pain in her belly. There was no relenting as the agony seethed and grew in her insides until finally she collapsed forward into the arms of her abusers.

As a small crowd gathered, one woman noticed what others did not. A glistening mass, hidden somewhat by the folds of Fu Shi's skirts. The woman clutched at her breast and sobbed. The girl had lost the baby. Angered by the curious audience, she started pushing at the onlookers, trying to give the young girl some privacy as she lay pale and broken on the ground.

Alkahestrists and elders alike were shocked when two weeks later, Fu Shi gave birth to a baby boy.

The story of the tiny infant and the unusual circumstances of his birth spread across the city and soon the child had earned the nickname, Zai Sheng: the reborn.

On first hearing the peculiar moniker, the young mother smiled down at the little bundle in her arms and considered his pinched face and shock of black hair. Fu Shi's first born had been named by the city and she wasn't about to disagree. Little Zai Sheng Shi, against all odds, had thrust his way into the world in a flurry of notoriety and gossip, perhaps a sign of things to come.

* * *

Hughes watched with something akin to humour as his friend picked his way through the cooked breakfast he had lovingly prepared. Mustang's kitchen was an absolute culinary disaster. He had hundreds of cenz worth of cooking equipment but if you were to hunt through his larder you would find little more than a jar of capers and a tin of out of date corned beef. Hughes had tried his best to admonish the man but his ire was met with a yawn and an even, disinterested look.

Mustang, wont to carry his eccentricities all the way through to even the most basic task of eating, ate only the yolk from the fried egg, the centre from the toast and was currently in the process of levering the fatty part of the bacon from his plate onto Hughes'. He dropped the gelatinous string of fat on the plate with not so much as a 'do you mind?' Hughes stared at it with disbelief and looked up to be met with a wide, cheeky grin.

"You like the finer stuff, don't you Roy?" Hughes said with resignation, pushing the discarded fat to one side.

While Hughes cooked, the two men had spoken quite casually about the night before. Mustang laid down the law from the outset that whatever happened between himself and Hawkeye was completely off limits. Hughes accepted on the condition that he could bring it up over their lunch on Monday. Mustang agreed, already plotting how he could best distract his curious friend when the time came. Mustang's episode had come up and he tried his best to describe in detail exactly what it was he saw. It was something that lay between a thought and a dream and in the tempest of his hangover he struggled to put sense to the fragments in his mind. When he mentioned certain aspects of his recollection, Hughes would stop in his machinations at the stove and the two would ponder quietly. Occasionally, one or the other would throw up theories about the letter and the phone call. They would toy with the ideas for a while before the scant notions lost solidity in their pathetic lack of information.

Now, in the silence of eating, Hughes' mind was working overtime, despite the best efforts of his irritating companion.

"Roy-" Hughes began but tutted when he received no response. "Roy?"

Mustang was prodding the white of his egg with his fork and didn't bother to look up at the mention of his name. "Mm?"

Hughes could practically see the walls going up. He knew Mustang had a sixth sense for the onset of any serious conversation relating to him that didn't concern the pursuit of the Fuhrership. Hughes kicked him under the table.

Mustang grabbed his shin and looked at the ceiling, repressing a yelp of pain.

"Stop being childish." Hughes said flatly.

Mustang continued rubbing his shin and with his other hand snatched up a crust of toast and held it languidly, "I don't like the whites, the crust or the fat. You should know this by now." He said.

Hughes drawled out an "Uh-huh" Before leaning further across the table, forcing eye contact. "You know what I'm talking about."

Mustang popped the crust into his mouth and chewed noisily through a sip of coffee. Hughes spotted this as another well worn 'Mustang device.' When the alchemist didn't want to engage or tell the truth, he would inevitably find something with which to block, stop or cover his mouth. Whether it be his hand, a newspaper, a cup of coffee or in this instance, a piece of toast – he would always find something to provide a cloak for the words he was saying. Hughes had worked in Investigations long enough to feel saddened by this; they were the telltale signs of a habitual liar.

Mustang pushed his plate aside, the china bumping across the worn oak table. He leant forward, resting his chin on his upturned palms in mock attention and raised his eyebrows. He winked.

"You're an ass." Hughes said, laughing a little.

Mustang laughed too, leaning back and rubbing the back of his neck shyly. "Sorry." He said, before driving his knuckles into tired eyes. He looked at Hughes for a moment, before asking somewhat timidly. "Do we have to be upright for this conversation?"

Hughes threw his neck back with mock surprise. Mustang lowered his eyes to him in response.

"Don't get the wrong idea, Hughes -" he stood and started out the door, "let's carry on in the lounge. I have a feeling I'll need to lie down for this..."

Hughes smiled and cleared the plates before making his way into the lounge where he found Mustang stretched out on the chaise longue. He took a seat opposite him and was shocked to see the black, bright eyes of his friend staring straight at him. He looked cat-like, tentative and ready to spring away if threatened.

Hughes would never mention it to his friend, but it was Mustang's erstwhile war colleague and veteran medic, Dr Knox who suggested that an intervention was required. As well as being a coroner for the State, he was also something of an unwilling expert on ex service personnel. At a recent forensic conference, Hughes was joined in the bar by the weary doctor who wasted no time in bringing up Mustang's worsening condition. Hughes had followed up Knox's initial comment with a series of meetings. They discussed the alchemist's demeanour, his downslide and experiences of the war. Knox shared things with Hughes that Mustang had never mentioned – even in their darkest and most drunken dialogues. Stories of Mustang coming back from the front covered in the thick, repulsive sludge of human ash mixed with sweat. Stories of how the other soldiers would flinch if they saw the infamous alchemist move too quickly or how Knox had once treated him for severely blistered and cracked hands. It turned out he had been washing them with methylated spirits and sand.

Knox had explained that if Mustang's experiences weren't aired to even his closest companions then they were inside him and him alone. Sufferers of the neurosis were in a constant flux between wanting to share their experience, to make the world understand and feelings of shame or self-loathing. Apparently, Mustang was doing very well in keeping everything under lock and key as long as he had. Both Knox and Hughes agreed though that the higher he climbed and the more responsibility he acquired, the less able he was to cope. He now had two young charges in the guise of the Elrics after all, and they came complete with their own setbacks and burdens. To carry the many trials of the Elrics, wrestle with the spectres of thousands and continue to pursue his grand vision for Amestris, it was vital that Mustang had his feet planted firmly on solid ground. If he was going to succeed in spinning so many plates, he would need to make sure he had a steady hand but things just weren't working out that way.

Not only that, but his weight loss was also becoming obvious and although Hughes was confident that his old friend succeeded in hiding it from his team, he had started to notice the tiniest manifestations of something malignant in the psyche of the Colonel. One Friday when they were sat under the sepia lights of a grubby bar, Hughes glanced down to see Mustang rubbing his hands obsessively as he stared into the middle distance. It was in that same circular motion of washing one's hands. There were other times when Mustang, lost in a daze in the back of a car, would jump half a foot in the air when the door was slammed. The birthday party was the final straw for Hughes. These accumulated incidences seemed even more sinister than the dark days when he would catch the contemplative glances Mustang cast at his pistol, or the ominous transmutation circles drawn on every book, in every corner of his home. They signalled something deeper and more poisonous than even suicide – the internal ruination of a man.

Knox had cautioned that no matter how tempting it was to practice diplomacy in their conversation, Hughes must force himself to address the issue face on and with conviction. "A flat instrument," Knox had said, "makes the best hammer. This isn't surgery, Lieutenant Colonel, it's demolition. Hard, blunt blows."

Hughes took a long breath and even as he did he saw Mustang wince almost imperceptibly at what he was about to say. He took no measure to prolong the anxiety. "Battle fatigue." He said simply. Mustang merely continued to stare, his face failing to register any emotion at the mention of the term. Hughes was about to speak again when Mustang butted in through a cynical smile.

"Who have you spoken to about this, Hughes? If my health insurance goes up next month I'll know who to blame..."

Hughes didn't shirk under the intensity of the black eyed scrutiny. "No one. I didn't need to go running to the medical department. I work in investigations, we have enough training to -"

"Careful Hughes, you know I'll check up on this." Mustang's voice was sing-song.

Sometimes Hughes wondered if Mustang forgot just how long they had been friends. "Enough circumlocution, Roy. Nice try on turning the tables..." Hughes then continued without hesitation by listing his observations and those aspects of Mustang's behaviour that made it a certainty that he was suffering war neurosis.

"You're not sleeping. Look at you, you're a wreck. The flashbacks, loss of appetite, headaches, dizziness, heart palpitations, inability to relax, irritability-"

"I've always been irritable!" Mustang cut in defensively.

"Disruptive behaviour-" he paused with a frustrated sigh as he heard Mustang grumble an objection but then persisted nonetheless, "Feelings of losing control, increased arousal -"

Mustang sniggered immaturely and stretched further, but his eyes remained fixed on Hughes.

"Hyper-vigilance, your reaction to the mention of Ishbal, the way you snap out of your daydreaming. A door slams and you jump out of your skin. You hear sirens before anyone else, you see conspiracy where even I can't, your performance last night - that episode, Roy. Your reaction to those damn teeth." He saw Mustang close his eyes and open them again slowly. "I'm worried about you."

Mustang stayed quiet for a very long time, staring straight at Hughes. He wore the expression that struck fear into the young corporals and sergeants of headquarters but held no threat to a friend as time worn as Hughes. It was a mixture of distaste and loathing, and would be quite potent to someone unfamiliar with Mustang.

The alchemist broke off his stare and took a noisy, ragged breath. "I suppose there's no way we can avoid talking about this?"

Hughes shook his head. "You're thinner now than you were at the academy. I looked in your larder for some butter and found a three year old tin of corned beef."

Mustang laughed and propped himself up on his elbow. "So what do you propose, mister psychiatrist sir?"

Hughes was actually taken aback somewhat. He hadn't expected Mustang to be so quiet about the subject. He had expected ranting, accusations of condescension and general 'Mustang misdirection'. As it was, things were going relatively well – perhaps Hughes really had succeeded in being scary the night before. Unfortunately for both of them though, there was no proposition of a cure. There was no answer to Mustang's problem. The only hope for any improvement was to throw some light on the shadows of the young Colonel's mind. Both Hughes and Knox knew that Mustang would never dream of taking psychiatric medication in a million years.

"I don't know. Talk I suppose. Open up a little more." Hughes said, opening his palms to his friend.

Mustang lay back, dangling his arm over the edge of the chaise longue and playing with the pattern of the rug beneath him. He felt the slow release of poison into his mind, the same petulance and acid from the night before but he fought it back, trying his best to find trust somewhere inside him and indulge his dearest friend's worry. He knew that he wasn't well, that Hughes had noticed and that the conversation was a long time coming. He also knew that following his concessions from the previous night, Hughes would no longer entertain his tricks of smoke and mirrors. He sat up straight and folded his arms, then unfolded them with a huff; he wanted to present as being as honest and as straightforward as possible.

"Listen, Hughes." Mustang started then stopped dead, a confused look on his face.

Hughes, crossed and uncrossed his legs with impatience while he watched Mustang struggle with whatever he was about to say. "You done, Roy?"

Mustang smiled sarcastically, then rolled his eyes, sat up even straighter and began to talk, the words tumbling out of him in one great, staccato itinerary of personal disaster. "Okay. You're right. Here goes. Okay. I – look, Hughes." He growled, closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, began. "Yes – I'm wrestling demons. Yes – I've lost weight. I can't sleep and I feel a little bit like the world is making less and less sense to me. I'm angry at the slightest things, I'm irrational – _more_ irrational –" he stopped to take a breath before continuing with fervour, "When I first saw the teeth all I could think of were the bodies I left behind in Ishbal, because that's about all I _did_ leave behind and now all I can think of is that poor, abysmal wretch of a woman who I think is my mother but I can't quite be sure. I think someone may be after me, perhaps they're even making a threat against my life, but I can't be sure. I think Bradley is on to me but I can't be sure. I think those damn Elric kids are okay but I can't be sure."

Hughes could see that Mustang's confession was in danger of derailing him. He tried to intervene with a supportive word but his friend's outpouring continued unabated.

"I fell getting out of the bath on Monday and couldn't bring myself to get off the floor for two hours, I forgot how to spell 'Amestris' the other week when I was drafting a report and sometimes I can't remember what day it is or what rank I am. Sometimes I wake up and think I'm still in Ishbal, sometimes I wake up and I don't know where I am, or who I am. My head hurts more or less constantly, I have a recurrent shake in my left hand and I go through about 6 bars of soap a week – I've developed a bit of a habit of unwarranted hand-washing – I'm sure you've noticed. Suffice to say, I know I need help and I know that you know that too. I have done for a while. I'm sorry for ignoring you and making you worry. I know that Christmas was burgled and you hid it from me which is fine and I know that you and Knox have been speaking about all this, so I'm sorry for trying to trick you before."

Here Hughes tried to cut in with an apology of his own but was stopped again.

"Look – don't apologise Hughes. It's okay, really. I would have lied to me too and I _know_ you would never go anywhere near the medical department because of that terrifying matron with the big hands." Mustang smiled warmly at his friend. "Thank you for being such a persistent, annoying pest of a friend and grabbing me by the scruff of the neck. Thanks too for going to all the trouble of looking into this. Even if there's nothing we can do just now, it's nice to know that I'm not making this up as I go along."

Hughes smiled back shyly, still somewhat shaken by what must have been a record number of words for Mustang to have spoken all in one go. "Well, if anyone was going to, it would be you..."

Mustang stood and held out his arms in invitation to a brotherly embrace. Hughes, though a little suspicious of Mustang's sudden display of warmth, stood proudly and approached his friend with arms wide open and ready for the hug. At the very last moment, Mustang ducked under Hughes' outstretched arms and delivered a sharp smack to the back of his head on the way past.

"You'll never learn, Hughes." He called back as he made his way up the stairs two at a time, stopping at the small landing to call back. "Let me get a wash and then we're going out to talk over this letter business some more. I need a drink."

Hughes adjusted his glasses and crouched to see Mustang disappear off the landing and up the stairs. "What the hell was _that_?" He asked himself before moving into the kitchen to clear up from breakfast.


	8. The Debate

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, though I really wouldn't mind if anyone's giving it away ...**

Thanks to **Southpaw** for proofing and support :)

Thanks also for the reviews chaps, muchly appreciated.

Re Amestrian tax (as referred to in debate). If anyone's shocked by how high the tax seems, I refer you to the various little nations of the EU ... and they're not even military dictatorships :p

Righty-ho, enjoy!

* * *

Excluding himself and Hawkeye, the Monday following Mustang's birthday was probably the best spirited Monday morning in the history of the working world. Everyone was upbeat and the tight sense of camaraderie between the small team was electric. Jokes were thrown back and forth, stories were recounted from the party and the day was passing by without any trouble. Work was kept light with Mustang's big debate coming up the following day and the only tasks on the agenda included fetching texts for his frenetic research and tidying up the filing from their previous few cases. Usually, no matter how light the workload was, there would always be some problem or oversight that would inspire the chaos so common to the Colonel's office. The team, in their good form, could have taken on the world that day and still have time for a game of cards. After the stressful comings and goings of the previous few weeks, Friday night had provided a way to blow off steam. Even more spectacularly, it gave the troops the chance to see their superior officer out of uniform and in the full swing of inebriation. For Fuery, he finally got to encounter a Mustang he had previously only heard of in Havoc's various tales of impropriety. Now he had stories of his own, Havoc's running into the garden with one of Mustang's sisters amongst them.

Despite the team's sunny outlook, the Colonel remained locked within his personal office for the morning, emerging only once or twice to go to the bathroom or ask for an additional text. He specifically asked that all case notes and files relating to himself were removed from common storage in a bid to prevent Lockheed or a source of Clifford's from doing some research of their own. Fuery had come labouring back from the archives with arms laden with musty files. Mustang neglected to share with his staff the overwhelming temptation to simply snap his fingers and remove the vast catalogue of his many sins from the permanence of black and white. To displace any desires he might have, he left the documents on the corner of Hawkeye's desk, neglecting to meet her eye as he did so.

Hawkeye too kept quiet during the course of the morning, only occasionally leaving her chair to deliver communications or file away her reports. Had the staff been free of the distractions of their own joviality, they would have noticed how she glanced at the thick wad of files on the corner of her desk, all of them marked with the Colonel's name. Hawkeye realised that truly they were both as good as each other at denying whatever feelings that may eddy and surge between them. Mustang had just about audibly murmured a good morning as he passed her desk and she in turn, stood and saluted, hiding quite successfully behind the veneer of her deference.

Ed and Al visited the office briefly before they made their way to the Central library to continue with their own pursuits, a personal freedom afforded to them by their Colonel – not that Ed would ever admit it, nor the Colonel for that matter. Ed was disappointed to find his superior locked away in his office, unable to hear him mocking his dress sense and dramatic exit after playing the piano.

At two o'clock, the chatter died away as a study-ravaged Mustang emerged from his office. The telltale signs were present: greasy hair from distressed hands running through it, loosened collar from fingers pulling at it and a scowl that could have stripped the paint from the wall. He regarded his staff for a moment before grouching that he was going for lunch and with a sarcastic afterthought cautioned that they should try not to work too hard. He waved lazily as he moved out the door.

"Ray of sunshine." Havoc said, starting to light up a cigarette before reconsidering having caught the sharp glare from Hawkeye. "You as well, Hawkeye. What's with you two today? You're both as dour as dishwater."

Hawkeye didn't answer but instead cleared her throat and returned to her work.

Havoc made a face at Breda who shrugged by way of reply. Fuery, in a bid to get the atmosphere back on track piped up as he leafed through a file on Brigadier General Lockheed.

"So how do you think he'll do tomorrow?" He asked.

Falman, a great fan of NationTalk began to speak but was cut off by Havoc who would often assert himself as the resident expert in the behavioural curiosities of Roy Mustang. He leant back cockily in his chair as he spoke, glancing sideways at Hawkeye in an effort to bait her into the discussion.

"It's going to go one of two ways: Mustang's going to sit there like a statue before carpet bombing both of them in the last few minutes or he'll lose his cool with Lockheed and the journo, the host, the audience and most of us before shooting his mouth off and earning himself a private slap around the jaw from the Fuhrer." Predictions finished, he let the front legs of the chair slam back to the floor.

The room considered this before Breda added his thoughts with brows knitted. "You think he's planning anything … you know?"

"Stupid?" Hawkeye asked quietly.

Everyone looked at the top of her head as she continued writing, not giving away that she had just spoken. Aware of the silence, she raised her eyes to meet them.

"He never _plans_ to be stupid. He's planning to be smart – that's the problem." She said before returning to her work.

The room fell into another uncomfortable lull in conversation, the scratching of Hawkeye's pen cutting across the room. Havoc reached into his pocket and counted out a small wad of notes before slapping them on his desk. "Fifty cenz says he blows it."

He was met with a collective groan that signalled everyone in the room wished they had thought of the idea first. More cash was added to the table as the team members made their bets.

Involuntarily and much to her own chagrin, Hawkeye stole another glance at the files on the corner of her desk. She hoped desperately that by the end of the following day, Havoc would be fifty cenz down.

* * *

Hughes was staring at Mustang with a disappointed frown.

"I can't believe you're refusing to talk to me about Riza. After you promised too, you dog." Hughes said, voice dripping with accusation and a rigid finger pointing at him to punctuate his grievance.

"I'm exhausted with all this honesty and openheartedness, Hughes. You can hardly expect me to turn into the town crier of emotions in one weekend. Besides, you're going to make me soft for tomorrow's big debate. My head is bursting from trying to prepare." Mustang didn't meet the man's eyes as he spoke. Instead, he dragged his fork through the thick slop of the canteen's stew. Hopefully, his fidgeting would make it look as though his bringing up the debate was something more than a diversion. It seemed to work as Hughes leant back with a smile.

"Oh yes! I keep forgetting – it's really crept up on us."

Mustang smiled up from his stew. "How could you have forgotten? It's my big debut on national radio."

Hughes laughed and slapped his leg, how _could_ he have forgotten? Though Mustang had done his fair share of interviews and presentations, it had never been anything on this scale. The fact he was paired up with Brigadier General Lockheed only added to the possible risk of the occasion. As soon as Hughes heard about his friend's involvement in the infamous debate he prayed to the false gods of patience and good humour that they would smile on Mustang that day. Neither man had known anyone in Lockheed's column, but to hear of the man's flagrant cowardice in bullying his second-in-command into an unwise offensive was unforgivable. Hughes worried that if the mood took Mustang, he would drag the nasty story into the full view of the public. You could say he had a chip on his shoulder about following unreasonable orders.

"Looking forward to it?" Hughes asked, scraping up the rest of his meal.

"You know – I actually am. I've done some reading on this Clifford fellow and I'm keen to deflate him a little."

"Careful Roy, he's very good at what he does-" Hughes said, shoving the last dregs of food into his mouth, "and he's insanely popular." He finished his mouthful before continuing. "You can bet he has a few choice tidbits about you..."

"He's an idiot, Hughes. You know he once rhymed 'pickle' with 'fickle' in one of his columns? What place does _rhyme_ have in serious journalism?"

"He doesn't need to be a genius to make a holy show of the military – he just has to be crass and appeal to the lowest common denominator." Hughes countered.

"I'll get you a signed picture in that case." Mustang smiled and pushed his bowl to the side, having only eaten a few bites.

"See Roy, it's exactly that kind of cheap retort that's going to bury you tomorrow." Hughes warned as he watched Mustang stand and stretch.

The alchemist grabbed the edge of the table and leant forward towards his friend.

"Don't worry. I'm a born rhetorician, Hughes." He pulled back at arms length and smiled down cockily. "If you want any proof, the word you wanted to be cautious of just now was 'debate' – you're too easily sidetracked. If you had pushed me a little more I may have told you what I _really_ said to her on Friday. Enjoy the rest of your lunch."

Hughes' mouth popped open with an incredulous little huff of laughter. Mustang sauntered out of the canteen without waving back. Hughes sometimes genuinely struggled understand why he was friends with the man. Still, he reasoned, life was never dull in the company of Roy Mustang. Though he couldn't attend the debate, he would be glued to the radio in Investigations, volume up as high as it would go and fingers crossed to the point of breaking.

* * *

Night had fallen on the freezing rooftops of Amestris, the streets dead in the natural depression of the early working week. Tucked away in his small, damp-soaked hotel, Nestor Mot sat hunched over a rickety desk. Pictures of Roy Mustang were spread in a neat arc across the back, while at the front Mot ghosted his finger preciously over the top of his perfectly drawn array.

The sullen alchemist lived for perfection and for organisation. What he lacked in self-esteem, popularity, gregariousness and appeal, he made up for in the singular ability to plan events to a near impossible certainty. Everything from the trinkets he took from the grave of Mustang's mother, to the intricacies of his master array had been scrupulously theorised, scrutinised and realised. Kamaka though had been an unwanted addition to his plans, one that had shaken him profoundly. Each night since she caught up with him, he would wait until she had gone to bed before taking himself out onto the small veranda where he would scream into his fist. He didn't want her anywhere near his precious bird, but that's the way things had worked out and he had no choice now but to integrate her into his plan.

Using the blow to his ambitions as best he could, he decided to risk using Kamaka at probably the most crucial moment of the day. He had spent more than a few hours trying to figure out the best way to tag Mustang with the array before he realised with both excitement and jealousy that the most suitable person for the task was his former tutor. Her skill had both the application and the subtlety to etch the array onto his quarry's skin with maximum effect and minimum effort. Her gender too, would serve to downplay any suspicions amongst his minders who would surely be on the lookout for any undercurrents of harm or disruption – and these usually wore the face of man. He hoped that with the teeth and the phone call, Mustang's resolve would already begin to show hairline fractures and allow for some efficacy with the trial array.

Despite his success so far, it pained Mot deeply that in the first part of _his_ plan, he was to be nothing more than a secondary cog. Ahu Kamaka, lazy and irrational, dangerous and covetous, would be the first one to lay hands on the gift of gifts. In the darkest part of his mind though, in those recesses where he was sure his thoughts would be safe from the beady eye of the Bone Alchemist, Kamaka; he was already planning how to force her exit from the stage of his divine intentions.

Feeling the hands of tiredness pull at the dead weight of him, Mot told himself that he must be content with his preparations and that he had planned the events of the following day as meticulously as he could. He shuddered as he touched an image of the young Colonel, feeling his neck grow warm with the thought of being so close to him. He supposed that in the due course of time, no one would be able to say that they had climbed inside the being of Roy Mustang as fiercely and completely as he.

* * *

The day had finally come and the main hall of the City Chambers was packed to the rafters with journalists, military personnel and a public hungry for drama. All three debaters had their share of controversy, and two of them carried the sweet, irresistible scent of the macabre. That cloying stench of someone who had spilt litres of blood and could still face the light of day appealed to the pens of the journalists and the curiosity of the public. Mustang would often refer to them as 'the peanut crunching crowd', those people who watched with gleaming eyes the vicious circus of war. There was scarcely a soul in the whole of Amestris who hadn't heard of the demon Colonel who had the power to explode thousands. There was an appeal in seeing a monster dressed in the skin of an alabaster faced gentleman. Mustang knew that regardless of what he said, the attention of the audience would be his from the outset.

The debate had started off slowly, the host providing exposition on the situation with the Fullmetal Alchemist and a few light hearted jokes about the various stereotypes found in the camps and academies of the military. Mustang was asked if he had ever beaten his young subordinate with a pillowcase full of soap, Mustang responded in the negative but it wasn't through lack of trying.

The first half of the debate centred around the question of age and how appropriate the new legislation was. Lockheed and Clifford sparred over what had necessitated such a change and the host struggled at times to keep the discussion under control. Now an hour and a half into the two hour debate, tensions had risen and there had been more heated interchanges between the Brigadier General and the journalist. Mustang stayed mostly quiet during these moments, only adding objective statements and cautioning examples before stepping back from the fray again. He could tell that the audience, his men included, were underwhelmed with his lack of flamboyance. He knew though that he would have his chance when the others had tired themselves out sufficiently. He didn't reach the rank of Colonel through want of strategic thinking.

Hawkeye stood at the far corner of the debating table, eyes scanning across the audience and never straying to the members of the discussion. Her eye caught on the face of the Mustang enthusiast from Saturday. Despite his oafish visage, something in his stare set her slightly on edge and she made a note to keep a watchful eye on him throughout the debate.

Havoc was placed at the back of the hall and Breda stood rididly half way down an aisle. The others, including the Elrics, were seated in the front row, heads darting from side to side as though they were watching a tennis match.

If Mustang had his way, he wouldn't have had anyone bar his two Lieutenants present, but Hughes had insisted on the others in light of the recent 'activity'. Mustang grudgingly agreed on the condition that if he happened to allot any praise to the talents and achievements of Edward Elric in the course of the debate, his words would not be used against him by the Lieutenant Colonel in the future. He would try his best to side step such an event arising in any case.

"Colonel Mustang, what are your thoughts on the reception of The Fullmetal Alchemist? Surely his popularity is a real boon to the military, given its austere relationship with the public?" The host asked. Mustang's opponents turned to face him. He could practically feel the needles of Ed's eyes shooting toward him.

An image of the Fuhrer kissing a baby's forehead sprang to mind. Mustang had no desire to play at such public relations. The military was what it was: a vehicle of force and order, not a popularity contest.

"What relationship with the public do you suppose the military _should_ have, Mr Speaker?"

Kirk Clifford interjected, thrusting a finger at Mustang, "Who planted the tack under your behind, Mustang? You seem to have woken up."

A rumble of laughter rose up from the crowd.

Mustang smiled, casting a sly look of complicity at the audience. "If that's a literal question, Clifford, I would be curious to know myself. I wonder if it was the same person who planted those dirty little pictures in the briefcase of General Worthswan? I think the chap wrote an article about it. He's lucky he wasn't charged with libel ..."

Clifford slurred back at the alchemist, "That was never proven."

"Neither were your journalistic credentials. And for the record, you're speaking to Colonel Mustang." The Colonel smiled to himself as the room burst into a mix of laughter, hisses and pantomime 'whoops' of fascination. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ed edge further forward in his seat.

Hawkeye muttered an 'Oh no', while Havoc hissed an 'Oh yes' at the tantalising prospect that he might actually win the bet.

"Returning to the topic at hand, gentlemen, the Fullmetal Alchemist: is it his courage to carry out such difficult tasks at such a young age that makes him so appealing to the hearts and minds of the country?"

Lockheed made a noise that sounded like an engine starting up. "Of course it is. He and so many of our men. If you want to find bravery you need only look behind the blue-"

Both Mustang and Clifford scoffed at the comment before Clifford turned toward the audience with a condescending sneer.

"Okay – pay attention Amestris. The military receive, _by far_, the majority of your taxes. Income tax is fixed at fifty per cent. Of that fifty per cent, thirty-nine goes to the military. Only eleven per cent, _eleven _-" he paused, giving him the opportunity to stress his facts, "is fenced off for other public sector departments. These guys are armed to the teeth with that thirty nine per cent and so they don't need bravery, they have artillery. Bravery is a mother feeding a family on fifty per cent of a paltry wage."

The audience exploded into applause, a few people standing in support of Clifford's comment.

Mustang waited for the applause to abate while both Clifford and Lockheed tried to continue debating, Lockheed growing red in the face. As soon as he heard the room go quiet, the Colonel started speaking forcefully, his words easing out between the chaos of his opponents' bickering.

"I would advise against such implicature, Clifford; our military being 'armed to the teeth' does not dictate that our soldiers are beyond risk when protecting the citizens of this country from the threat of, or actual harm"

Clifford tried to interrupt but Mustang continued smoothly.

"I would also like to make it clear to you all that the military actually receives fifty-two per cent of your taxes and have done so for the last three years-" Mustang allowed a small grumble from the crowd to pass, "but we manage close to ninety per cent of public contracts including road works, disaster relief, policing, peace keeping, trade relations, transport, border control, veteran care, _free_ automail provision, community support and medicine. There are fifteen private hospitals in Amestris and they _all_ fall in the bottom tenth percentile of best practice. If you're in an accident, pray that you're taken to a military establishment."

The host, finding promise in the current line of debate, turned to Clifford who threw his head back and laughed before slamming his hands down on the surface of the table.

"Unbelievable! Mustang – where are you getting these facts?" He asked with a snarl.

"From the National Department of Enterprise and Statistics – it's that big white building next to the street corner where you got yours." Mustang couldn't help but laugh a little as he heard the distinct sound of Edward Elric howling out what he could only interpret as support.

Lockheed was flabbergasted and managed to squeeze out a few garbled words about bravery in the military ranks before being drowned out by Clifford, the mediating words of the host and the mumbles of the crowd. The host finally managed to get a reign on the situation and allowed Lockheed his say, though Mustang wished the man would stop cramping his style. Throughout the whole course of the debate he had almost been cartoonish in his representation of how rigid and combative the military could be. He took everything personally and did no favours to a force whose objectivity had been called into question in the wake of the recent killing of the young protester at the border rally.

"You cannot find more valiant individuals than the soldiers serving in the Amestrian military. It's about time you all recognised that everyday we put our lives on the line to serve and protect the people of this great nation. The boys and girls in blue are lionhearted, selfless and remain unthanked by you people in your comfortable jobs far away from the front line. To say they aren't brave-"

Clifford motioned to speak but Mustang cut in, he could feel the eyes and ears of the audience focus on him. He knew he was succeeding in winning their esteem for him, if not their trust.

"Could we please stop throwing that word around? Why do we insist on attributing these silly, meaningless words to national service?"

"I'm not sure we're getting you Colonel." The host coaxed.

"Bravery, to be brave, derives from 'brabus', an archaic word for barbarous-"

"What in God's name are you talking about Colonel?" Lockheed demanded impatiently, his jowls quivering.

"Bravery, as we know it, does not exist. We took a word that meant 'to behave like animals' and changed its meaning to something that implied honour or glory, because we _needed_ it. We needed the notion of bravery because we kept fighting wars – it's a figurative trail of bread crumbs to lead young men and women into hellish circumstances."

Hawkeye broke her surveillance of the audience and looked at her Colonel, worried at where this new development in the debate could lead. She could see a gleam in his eyes that told her he was beginning to get drunk on the attention, on the need to make himself understood.

The host harnessed the debate. "Many would think this a surprising opinion from the Hero of Ishbal. You don't credit bravery, Colonel?"

"What I'm saying, Mr Speaker, is that our audience should forget what they hear about the valour of soldiers and recognise that we are doing a job and that job is protecting the people of this country. This isn't the theatre, it's real life. In battle, a brave man can be shot dead as well as a cowardly man."

The room was quiet for the first time since Mustang came to the fore. Lockheed was glaring at him with eyes full of betrayal. Clifford could see that it would do more harm to the military if he let the old Brigadier General take the opposition for a while and so leaned back with a smirk, ready to pounce if the chance presented itself. He wanted Mustang's head and knew that Lockheed was not up to the task.

"A courageous man won't hesitate to kill a man on sight, Mustang." Lockheed said, the high pitch of indignation still present in his voice.

"Neither will a timid man who wants to live." Mustang answered, turning to address his superior face on.

"But a brave man won't desert a fallen comrade."

"Neither will a cowardly man with a good heart." Mustang answered, immediately uncomfortable with his fluffy use of words. Lockheed didn't miss it.

"A good heart, Mustang? Come on! What have they been feeding you since you've come to Central? You've gone soft!"

"Look, Brigadier General -" Mustang started more aggressively than he intended.

"Remember your place, Colonel..." Lockheed warned.

Mustang faltered for a moment, catching the taunting face of Clifford mocking him from across the table. He looked down at his men in the front row and sat straighter in his seat, driving home his point with a few powerful prods of his finger on the surface of the table.

"Look," he sighed, becoming frustrated with what he considered to be empty, wasteful talk. He couldn't understand why Lockheed wasn't getting him, it was so simple. "The point I'm trying to make here is that applying bravery to soldiers is as arbitrary as applying 'goodness' to doctors. Honour the outcome, credit the work they do, not this ghost of an abstract we call 'bravery'. And for our chintzy journalist here to critique the armament of the military is absurd. Your whole career has been based on vapid criticism. The point is not to interpret, Clifford, the point is to _do._"

"Hold on-" both Clifford and Lockheed shot out at the same time, but Mustang pushed on with a measured, solid tone.

"You ask anyone on the front line if they feel brave and if they say 'yes' then they're lying or too brainwashed to know otherwise. On the front, you're scared to the soles of your boots but you carry on because it's your job, it's your duty. Often, it's the only option you have."

Clifford leaned towards Mustang with a sneer, his elbows making squeaking sounds as he did so, "And yet you walked home as though you were made of marble, Colonel? Was it your only option, your duty to destroy what's estimated to be close to fifteen thousand lives in Operation Market Garden? That's _one_ operation and you came out of the bloodbath with laurels in your hair? You must have felt pretty brave then?"

Mustang smirked back at Clifford, surprised that the sleazy hound actually had the courage to challenge him so directly. He cleared his throat - whatever he said now, he could not afford to sound cocky or any support he had garnered would be lost. He also new that on the other side of his modesty was the importance of making no apology for Ishbal or the Fuhrer would have his neck. He could not refer to it as a massacre or even a war – it was, in the history books of Amestris, an 'uprising'.

"I have no problem saying I did horrifying things in the uprising or that I was terrified. It terrifies me still." He paused though his low, powerful timbre made it clear he intended to continue.

Hawkeye hung her head.

"I'm appealing to the mothers and fathers of any active troops out there. I'm telling you categorically, your children don't want banners and shouts of 'hero'. They want to be considered human in a world where they must do monstrous things."

The room was silent. Mustang looked at the host and opened his palms in some appeal to good reason. This was not to be found in Lockheed.

"I think the mothers and fathers will find you foolish, Colonel – foolish and ungrateful." There were a few shouts of disagreement from the crowd, Lockheed addressed them defensively. "I'm not trying to take away from the great work this man accomplished in the uprising. I will readily admit that Colonel Mustang is a weapon of the very highest calibre and he will be written into the history of this nation. I must however, disagree with him here." He dropped two watery eyes in the Colonel's direction. "Mustang, have some sense, everyone wants a hero's return." Mustang shrugged his shoulders, denying Lockheed's reason with the simplest of gestures. Lockheed stood and entreated the sympathy of the audience. He missed the hateful golden eyes staring up at him from the front row. "Mustang had his hero's welcome – he's just trying to hold onto that dear little title of his for as long as he can!"

Mustang raised his voice and lurched forward in his chair, he laughed in disbelief as he spoke. "Have the title! Have it! What does it mean to me? _Nothing._ It's just words made of air! I can't eat it or take it to bed with me. It doesn't keep me warm or pay my bills and it certainly won't keep me alive in battle. Quite the opposite..." He calmed himself with a sigh that made it clear what he thought of his superior's wit. "If there are any soldiers listening, listen carefully – if you find yourself staring into the barrel of a gun and you feel brave then you're already dead. You can only feel such when your life is already over. As long as you have a life, you are liable to lose it and that's scary. I'm not saying quit and I'm not trying to discourage anyone from enlisting but _please_, to say bravery matters in all of this, or should matter, is absurd."

Mustang caught his Lieutenant's eye across the thick soup of tension that had built up in the room. She shook her head slowly but he looked away. There were ripples of discomfort in the audience but of intrigue also – Mustang was certainly giving them their money's worth. The Brigadier General looked furious and was whispering something energetically into the ear of his aide. Havoc wondered if this would count as a win for him. Surely the Fuhrer would see something of insubordination in Mustang's responses to Lockheed – and on such a public platform.

A producer off to the side motioned to the host that he should wind things up. The mediator turned to Clifford.

"Some final thoughts, Mr Clifford?" He asked, shuffling his papers to signal the close of the debate.

"Only that I think it's clear how fractious our dear military grunts can be. Do you want your child, your fifteen year old entering into this world of internal bickering? How can this pack of dogs manage full-on offensives when they can't even quiet the yapping of two squabbling curs?"

Clifford was met with a clash of 'boos' and some applause.

"Brigadier General?" The host asked.

Lockheed had his broad chest turned to Mustang but looked at the crowd, unaware how little of their support he had won throughout the course of the debate. "Only that I suppose you wouldn't need bravery when you can incinerate your enemy from half a league away."

"Nor armed with a map and a good radio – Sir."

Before Mustang had even stopped speaking the room exploded into uproar. Lockheed slammed his fists down on the table and was screaming dissension. Clifford repeated, "You see? You see?" at the audience while the host started his spiel in rounding up the discussion with a tired military joke about the debate ending on such a raucous note. Members of the audience were stamping their feet on the ground and howling, excited by the sheer audacity of Mustang's comment. Most everyone with a vague interest in the Isbhallan war knew the story of Lockheed and his remote offensive ending in the slaughter of his men.

The commotion continued for a further ten minutes until the auxiliary soldiers, on the command of Havoc, achieved some order and started ushering the audience out of the room. Hawkeye moved to her Colonel who was casually engaged in gathering up his things and thanking the host, pretending to be oblivious to Lockheed's infuriated ranting to his staff and the disquiet of the audience.

He stood and smiled at her crookedly with just a hint of a grimace. She held out his coat for him.

"That was a very stupid thing to say, Sir." She said quietly.

He quirked an eyebrow. "I thought it was rather smart actually."

"As you would, Sir."

She placed a hand at his elbow to signal that he should start making his way towards the steps, ready to exit on the heels of the audience.

Mot, electrified by the performance of his precious quarry stood on trembling legs and began pushing Kamaka along the tight row, trying his best to coincide their exit with the last of the audience.

As Mustang made his way down the steps from the stage with his aide at his back, Mot had a flash of recognition. She was unmistakable – the young solider at the Colonel's shoulder was the same woman from his outing on Saturday. She had pretended not to know who Mustang was at the time – how odd, Mot thought with suspicion. Her eyes scanned across the sea of swarming, slowly pacing bodies as Mustang occasionally stopped to shake someone's hand or answer a few questions from concerned parents and jackal-like journalists.

Mot had a sense that it would be bad news if she spotted him at the time they made their move on Mustang and he grabbed Kamaka's arm hungrily.

"I have to go." He said, sweat already breaking on his forehead. He could feel his agitation start to push up through his throat towards a scream. Why did that blonde woman make him so nervous?

Kamaka hissed back at him. "What?"

"His aide. She'll recognise me. Something about her – I think she'll remember me. We bumped into each other on Saturday and spoke about him."

Kamaka sighed. "Who cares?"

"No! I'll go on. You know what to do? The array, it needs to be prefect. Make sure your left hand causes enough of a distraction."

With that, Mot squeezed himself past the heavy woman and darted into the crowd, trying to keep himself inconspicuous.

"That damn woman." He scorned the aide in his mind. His chance to finally get close to his beautiful Colonel had been ruined. He couldn't quite figure out why she had presented as such a threat to him – she knew after all that he had tickets for the event. There was just something about her countenance – he could imagine her playing feverishly with jigsaws as a child, a mind trained to see meaning where others saw coincidence.

He still had his part to play though, and for now, he had an array waiting for him back at their hotel, ready to forge a link between himself and his Colonel Mustang.

The Flame Alchemist was becoming irritated by the pace, sick of hand shaking and chit-chatting. He wanted to get back to the office and get his reprimand from the higher-ups over and done with. He still hadn't decided if his last comment was worth it or not.

Havoc floated in front of him with Hawkeye two paces behind. Ed and Al dallied behind Hawkeye, wanting to stay part of the action for as long as possible. He knew the rest of his men would be waiting outside, ready to escort him back to head quarters.

The pace seemed to slow even further as a large lady stepped ahead of his small group, the last of the guests to leave. As she left the row, her skirt caught on one of the seats. Havoc paused and Mustang could see him hesitate, even from the back, before the older lady turned her eyes up with a beseeching look. Havoc crossed Mustang's path, awkwardly sidling towards her. Havoc tried to unfasten her skirt from the splinter of wood on the seat with clumsy, gloved fingers. Hawkeye tutted from behind Mustang and pressed him lightly on the back to keep him moving forward. The woman had taken off her right glove to better work at the fabric and lifting her head to gain some composure, clocked Mustang with an excited stare.

She launched herself forward, the chair skidding violently behind her and pounded into Mustang with all the force of her considerable weight. The Colonel floundered and fell back with a grunt, missing Hawkeye's outstretched arm. There was a burst of laughter from Ed and a sympathetic whimper from Al.

"Colonel! Colonel Mustang! I'm so excited to meet the Hero of Ishbal! So handsome." At that she placed her right hand on his shoulder and her left groped and found purchase on his crotch. Mustang yelped. "Colonel! You're a great man!" She was hysterical, but unbeknownst to the soldiers the feigned hysterics that were part of Mot's plan soon gave way to her very real mania to finally meet the man who lay grunting beneath her. Her years of toil and fretting had finally brought her to this. "You! I've found you! Finally you rogue!" She leaned forward, her hand slipping under his shirt and resting on his clavicle, the action appearing as though she were trying to push herself off him. Slobber hung from her mouth in a pearly string.

"Po-Yang you damnable swine! We've found you at last! Po-Yang lives! You gorgeous little casket." She screamed, spit hitting Mustang in the face.

He was squirming under her great mass, finding it somewhat difficult to breathe, and not believing his own bad luck. He couldn't even reach out a hand to pry hers from his affronted manhood. He could hear cameras clicking as photographers clambered over seats to get a good shot. Havoc was at the woman's back, yelling as he tried to lever her off. Hawkeye spoke sternly to the auxiliaries, ordering them to remove the photographers or face punishment. That done, she turned to assist Havoc in his mammoth task.

Kamaka, feeling that she was dangerously close to being considered a serious threat and nervous of the armed guards, pushed her hand further under Mustang's shirt, continuing to play at her attempts to get up. She let her alchemy get to work on tagging the array while her left sought to distract the Colonel from the tingle of her machinations. She smiled devilishly and grabbed hold of the flesh under the fabric of his crotch – hard. He squealed, the sound echoing equal measures of pain and utter confusion.

"Get this damn sow off me you two!" He screamed, bucking wildly to try to free himself but still finding it impossible to move from under her.

In the fracas, no one but Kamaka noticed the low blue light working beautifully under her palm, writing into his skin her future and the dawning of his past.


	9. Motions

**Disclaimer: As per always - I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. Yeo.**

**Thanks to the wonderful Southpaw** for her perception :)

Thanks also for all the kind support, really greatly appreciated.

Enjoy!

* * *

Hawkeye felt like her heart had scarcely been out of her mouth the whole afternoon. From the hot anticipation in the hours preceding the debate, to the muttering and suspicious crowd; that jolting reflex when someone moved too quickly, or the split second itch in her fingers when she saw the glint of light on metal. It was like looking down at a pit of snakes, all of them primed and ready to bite. She saw threat in everyone, the possibility of ill-intent ringing out in the whispers and sidelong glances of the audience. It didn't matter if they were civil softies and journalists – it would only take one bullet to fell her Colonel and that could come from anywhere at any time. She had to be ready.

It didn't help abate her anxiety that as the debate dragged itself through the mire of conjecture and philosophising, her Colonel grew notably more impatient. Huffing at Lockheed's turgid sermonising, and occasionally putting on a show of not listening, he would scrutinise his fingernails or check his silver pocket watch, always wearing that ridiculous smirk of his. She knew then it was only a matter of time before he decided that everyone else was wrong and it was his job to put them right. She was only glad the Fuhrer was back in headquarters, oblivious to the belligerent posturing of his most well known Colonel.

Hawkeye had worked under Mustang long enough to conclude that a bad day was one in which disagreeable events could actually be ranked. Amongst these was her spotting the gentleman she had bumped into on the street outside the chambers. The surprise wasn't that he was there, she knew that he would be, but rather something that lay behind the curtain of his adoring expression. He had so many tics that Hawkeye lost track of them. Every now and then he would throw his hands to his mouth as though suppressing a yawn before lowering them shakily, his face beaming red. The frantic movement caught Hawkeye's keen eye every time. It came close to driving her mad under the hot lights of the stage as she could certainly do without the distraction of a fidgety fanatic. There was something about him though, a conspiracy lurking beneath the veil of infatuation that told her this was a fanatic worth jumping at. He seemed harmless enough when they collided on Saturday but behind his bumbling facade, she saw a loving kind of ploy written into his drawn and waxy features. Instinct, at least, told her to keep an eye on him.

It spoke volumes that ranking low on her list of disagreeable events was the attack of the large lady from the 'Mustang lunatic fringe.' Although her stomach had somersaulted at the time, she couldn't help but smile occasionally at his writhing and yelping as he struggled under her mass. It was a nightmare in terms of his self-imaging to the public and detracted greatly from his performance in the debate. Depending on how the country reacted however, that may be no bad thing. Never one for compromise, she knew her Colonel's harsh comments regarding there being zero bravery in the military would either be met with wide applause or disdain. Kirk Clifford's revelation of Operation Market Garden would do the alchemist no favours either. So as far as Hawkeye saw it, if the sloppy groping of a chubby madwoman sapped away the sinister public face of her superior, then so be it. She hoped for all their sakes, that if needs be, the same trick would work on the Fuhrer. He was also a man of questionable compromise.

Only now as the small group spilled into the staff office did she let herself relax slightly, taking off her holster and laying it across her desk. The others seemed to take their cue from her, Havoc waiting for Mustang to enter his own office before cracking up at the memory of his superior pinned to the floor by an overzealous loon. At the sound, the Colonel thrust his head back out through the door and glowered at them all before levelling his gaze at the Second Lieutenant. Havoc felt a bob in his throat as he swallowed his laughter in one great lump. Everyone stopped laughing apart from Ed who was engaged in gasping and wiping tears from his eyes.

"I'm preparing for what's sure to be an upbeat meeting with the Fuhrer tomorrow morning. I would appreciate it if you could all keep your minds off my … savaging enough to prevent suffocating yourselves with laughing. Good luck, Ed." He said, eyes shifting slowly from Havoc to the Fullmetal Alchemist with distaste.

He closed the door of his office with quiet tension. With the door closed, everyone started sniggering again, including Hawkeye who remembered the broken squeal in the Colonel's voice as he tried to buck the mass of flesh off him.

If Mustang having _it_, resulted in that kind of attention then she was sure he was quite welcome to it – whatever _it_ was. Amongst the chaos of the choked howls of laughter from her comrades, her snickering died down to a quiet smile as she thought that for the moment, she was quite happy appreciating him from a distance and always from the back, despite his innate ability to inspire bad days and leave her heart in her mouth.

* * *

Having ran, jogged and choked his way across Central into the crumbling environs of the Grassmarket and his lodgings, Mot fumbled his key in the lock of his door. He was too excited, too worried to operate his hands in carrying out the most basic task of opening his front door. He took a deep breath and tried again. The latch clicked and he threw the door inward, the brass handle banging against the wall.

He ran to the desk where his array was waiting for him. He hung his fingers over the top of the page and was dismayed to see how violently his hands were shaking. The first phase of his plan was probably the most vital. He would know almost immediately on activating his array if Mustang was really the prize he was searching for. Specialising in the chemistry of the body, this dangerous alchemy was not one of his strengths. Given that, he knew it would take a few attempts to get a proper hold on Mustang. If and when the alchemy found purchase on the Flame Alchemist, Mot would be able to explore the depths of his precious vessel and know for sure if Wei Po-Yang was in there somewhere. It was an exciting prospect, but terrifying at the same time. His plans would be for nothing if he found that Mustang was nothing but a promising, but nonetheless empty, wild goose.

Mot rubbed his mouth with his hands, sucking in air through his sweating fingers. He couldn't wait for Kamaka to join him for this, for all he knew she had been arrested. He hoped, in fact that she had been. For now, he would do this alone. Pulling the page closer to him, he touched his fingers to the corner of the array and smiled when the shape sprang to life in a shower of blue light.

* * *

The laughter continued as the jokes kept coming from Havoc and now Breda too – no one even made the pretence of trying to carry on with work. Ed was howling and punched Fuery on the arm to share in the joke, Fuery flinching at the impact and rubbing sorely at his arm.

"I mean she grabbed a handful! Didn't she Hawkeye?" Havoc asked, laughing over at her.

Hawkeye shrugged and smiled, "She had pretty small hands though..."

The room exploded in laughter, even Al giggled nervously. Fuery thought that Ed might have a heart attack, his face turning a festive shade of purple.

Havoc walked over and shook the blonde Lieutenant by her shoulder, barely managing to speak through his laughter. "Holy crap – Hawkeye just cracked a tackle joke. I knew you had it in you!"

She opened her mouth to add comment when something struck the Colonel's door with force, the wood shaking and a dull bang punctuating the laughter.

Everyone jumped, assuming it was Mustang telling them to quiet down but Hawkeye stood slowly, her eyes flicking to an amused Havoc as she passed. She approached the door lightly, one hand reached out to her colleagues to try to quiet them. She knocked.

"Sir?"

There was no response. Her stomach clenched and the sensation of a singular butterfly began tickling at her insides.

"Colonel, sir?" She repeated and still there was nothing. She didn't bother looking back at the others who had hushed themselves.

She pressed open the door but found that it moved only about an inch before hitting something soft. She knew in an instant what it was.

"Sir!" She said with urgency. Havoc joined her at her side and peered through the crack. They could both see the smallest fraction of black hair and beyond that a pale hand, loose and unmoving.

"He's fainted?" Havoc asked quietly. "Should we call for a med -"

"No!" Hawkeye shouted, much louder than she intended. If she didn't know better, she would say she could hear the beginnings of panic in her voice. "No. I'll -" She began but stopped in her effort to slowly force the door open, the feeling of her superior's shifting weight on the other side making her light headed.

When the door was open enough for her to slide through she turned back to Havoc. "Don't let anybody in. If anyone phones or arrives for the Colonel tell them he's taking a call from General Grumman offsite." Her eyes darted to Fuery. "Sergeant, get on a secure line and inform the General that we're planting him in a scenario and he's not to make contact – he'll understand." Then to Falman. "Call Lieutenant Colonel Hughes – say nothing except that he's to make his way here." Although the staff sprung into action in a split second, their faces revealed a stoney faced worry.

As Hawkeye forced one shoulder into the small gap she was stopped by Al's quiet voice.

"Lieutenant – is there anything we can do?"

Twisting her head back, she tried her best to smile kindly through the flush of her growing panic. "Just have your brother ready to put some colour back in his cheeks when he comes round."

Al nodded and Ed smiled shyly but the tightness in his mouth indicated that any of the previous temptations to laugh at the Colonel had left him.

Hawkeye managed with some effort to slip through the gap between the frame and open door before kneeling in front of her Colonel. She gasped when she saw two black eyes staring blankly past her. They were dull and void, the total lack of any sign of life encouraging her shaking hand to feel for a pulse before she even realised what she was doing. Her breath hitched and a whimper trembled on her tightening lips. Notions of strokes, aneurysms and heart attacks shot through her spinning head. Feeling the throb beneath the whiteness of his wrist, she sighed in relief and reached a hand to his cheek, tilting his head upwards.

With the movement, she swore she could see life return to his black eyes – a sheen that hadn't been there only seconds before. He drew in a breath and let it back out again in a long groan, his eyes struggling to focus.

She allowed her gaze to travel the length of his crumpled body, making sure she hadn't missed something vital in her shock of seeing him stretched out on the floor. Her attention was drawn back to his face by his thick, tired voice.

"Your hands are cold." He said with eyes closed and face scrunched in discomfort.

She smiled and slapped him lightly on the cheek, his eyes opening slowly to regard her.

"What happened, sir?" She asked softly.

His left hand moved unsteadily to rub at his head.

"I'm on the floor." He said stupidly through an intake of breath.

"How did you end up on the floor?" She urged and reached under his arms to help sit him against the door.

"Why are you asking me?" He asked back grumpily, his hands clumsily trying to help his Lieutenant in pushing him to a sitting position.

As he leant back against the wood, the door slammed shut. Hawkeye, her hands still dug into his armpits toppled forward as he fell backwards until they were nose to nose.

Havoc called from the other side of the door. "All okay?" She could tell that his mouth was pushed right against the door frame.

"Yes!" She called back, making Mustang wince as her response lanced through his sore head from such close proximity.

She turned back and looked at him, suddenly aware of their highly compromising position. She had landed with one knee placed squarely between his legs and her hands remained trapped in his armpits, his face no more than a centimetre from hers. He was pinned against the door, hands flat on the ground. He looked stunned and odd, one eye hadn't quite managed to open itself properly – it gave him a wetted, drunken quality that was almost laughable. She was glad the other staff were safely on the other side of the door.

"Come on, Sir." She said, helping him fully to his feet to assess if he was fit enough to stand again.

He wavered slightly, his hands gripping her forearms before he smiled confidently and let go, releasing her hands from his warmth.

"Bet your hands aren't cold anymore..." He teased.

She was about to chide his casualness when she heard a faint, familiar crackle and saw a blue light gleam from under the Colonel's collar. As it happened, the Colonel froze and any light that was in his eyes only moments before seemed to disappear in an instant. He teetered forward slightly before he collapsed violently, his knees striking the carpet and his upper body pitching backwards. Hawkeye rushed forward to catch him by the back of the neck only to lose her footing herself. They landed hard, her legs sprawled across his thighs and her face slamming into his shoulder. She cried out in shock, backing off his once again unconscious body.

He was bent back on himself impossibly, his eyes once again blank, dark and unseeing, any brightness totally gone. The light, that telling flash of alchemy shocked her into action and she leapt to her feet, pulling open the door.

"Edward!" She cried, ignoring the dread in her own voice. The butterfly had returned to the cavity of her tummy with a few of its friends; she felt sick. "I need you."

Ed stood self-consciously. He looked over his shoulder at Al but the huge suit of armour simply shrugged back, red eyes mirroring Ed's confusion. The others in the office were frozen where they were. Havoc stepped forward.

"Is he okay, Hawkeye?" He asked timidly, resisting the urge to try to glance past her into the office.

The Lieutenant faced her colleague slowly, struggling to separate herself from her panicked thoughts. The sight of her Colonel, looking gone and numb to the world, was swamping her. She tried to force a calm as she replied to Havoc.

"I don't know. Is Hughes on his way?" She asked, noting the dissatisfaction on Havoc's face at her answer. He nodded in reply. "Good."

With that said, she gestured that Ed should enter the smaller office, her hand resting on his back as she closed the door behind them.

Ed's face blanched as he looked down on the still body of the Colonel. His blank eyes and motionless face were terrible to look at. The young alchemist spun to question an ashen faced Hawkeye.

"Is he -?" He whispered.

"No." Hawkeye answered abruptly, kneeling next to the fallen man and untucking his legs from under him. Ed joined the Lieutenant so that they were both facing each other across the Colonel. She grabbed at the man's uniform jacket, shaking fingers undoing the buttons, and spoke as she worked.

"I saw a flash of blue light before he collapsed."

Ed nodded, peering into the Colonel's eyes. They seemed to have grown duller even since Ed had entered the office. He swallowed hard; afraid as he was to think it, let alone say it, the man looked dead.

With the jacket peeled back, Hawkeye undid the top few buttons of the Colonel's shirt.

"I thought it came from his neck but there's nothing -" she stopped as she pulled the shirt back to reveal the Colonel's left shoulder. Ed saw it immediately, his breath catching at the sight. He vaguely heard Hawkeye groan off to his side, but his eyes refused to move from the dreadful sight in front of him.

Just above Mustang's left collarbone was an array. The skin surrounding the mark was pink and mottled by the angular little patches indicative of alchemy. The circle itself, a simple design a couple of inches wide, was bright white, and were it not for the irritated skin surrounding it would have been almost indistinguishable from the Colonel's pale complexion.

"An array..." Ed said quietly before leaning over the Colonel's body to get a closer look. He could sense Hawkeye's worried eyes on him and felt incredibly invasive, almost as though he was scrutinising her and not the Colonel at all. "It's okay, Hawkeye." He said, not really believing himself but hoping his words offered even the tiniest amount of comfort to the Lieutenant. She had no reason not to believe the only conscious alchemist in the room.

There was something about the symbols though that made him feel ill at ease. The twin snakes and the cross – the array was reminiscent of his and Al's but there was something in its vagueness that was unnerving. Something in between the lines that Ed wasn't quite seeing. Besides that, how the array had actually been written into Mustang's skin was mysterious in itself.

"How do you suppose it got there?" Ed asked.

Hawkeye rubbed her hand down her face. "I don't know how I missed it, I let myself get distracted by the commotion – I think it was that woman who jumped him. I can see it now: her right hand under his shirt collar."

Ed nodded quietly, sorry that Hawkeye felt responsible for something she couldn't possibly have known to look out for.

He studied the makeup of the array more closely. It seemed to be written by the strangest means. The lines in their whiteness looked chalky and Ed could see small fissures in the substance where the Colonel's skin had shifted as he stretched and moved. A huge part of Ed wanted to touch it, but there was a jeopardy in his ignorance that carried too much risk.

"Hey Lieutenant, would you mind scratching a little at this section here?" He asked, pointing to the outer circle.

Hawkeye stretched her hand down and began scratching at the array. Sure enough, white powder gathered under her nail, some of the dust falling into the centre of the array. Ed smelled at the loosened dust on the array as Hawkeye did the same with her fingernail.

"Chalk." She said.

Ed agreed then cocked his head with a sudden thought. "Say, Lieutenant, would you mind scratching a little more? Go gently."

Continuing to scratch at the same section, Hawkeye paused as she saw a little blood start to blossom under her nail. She searched Ed's face for a meaning, stomach turning at the gruesome feeling of the chalk on her fingertips.

Ed was tapping his chin with a hooked finger and on seeing the blood concluded his theory was correct.

"She's a skilled alchemist, that's certain." He said and was urged to continue by Hawkeye's anxious silence. "She's calcified his skin. It must have taken great experience of working with human flesh in this way – look at how fine the lines of the array are. There are some diseases that manipulate flesh like this but for an alchemist to convert flesh into calcium with such subtlety is – wow."

If she had the luxury of time to reflect on this, Hawkeye was sure she would have lost her poise there and then. The thought of what had been branded onto her Colonel and the means by which it was done was so horrid that she had to force herself with every ounce of her training to keep control.

"What does it mean?" She asked, sitting back on her ankles as she kneeled with her head close to Ed's.

"I don't know exactly – it's hard to decipher another alchemist's code but there's a few things here that really stand out."

"Tell me." She looked at him with a desperation Ed hadn't thought possible in the stoic Lieutenant.

Ed tilted his head one way then the other as he spoke her through the array, describing the symbols as simply as he could.

"The cross inside the circle basically represents uh -" Ed had to think hard about what exactly it did represent in a format expressible to a non-alchemist. People were right: alchemists were out of touch with reality. "Well if you have a cross like this, where all four points of the cross touch the circle, it shows the unification of opposites. You could guess yourself what the circle represents: the sun, continuity, rebirth. Life, in other words. For the two to sit together like this is basically a neat way of summing up the human condition: body, mind, soul and environment. Material and spiritual opposites strung together in a living, breathing vessel."

Ed could see his explanation was making Hawkeye nervous. After all, if the pattern on Mustang called to mind Ed's array then she couldn't help but think of the great taboo the brothers had committed and the dark risks associated with it.

"I can go through this with you later if you like." He said, his fingers resting next to the array.

They both looked at their superior, his eyes still glazed and staring without seeing. Hawkeye shifted on her knees anxiously.

"No. Go on."

Ed nodded and let his fingers hover above the array, pointing as he went.

"This arc running across the top with the hoops at each end stands for 'sublimation'. So it'll act as a means to divert or transfer – channel maybe, even convert. Think of this as apparatus operating within the array."

Hawkeye nodded and followed the arc with her fingers just above the array.

"The dual snakes you see wrapped around the cross represent duality and between them, that little pattern is sometimes called 'the aporia' -"

"Contradiction?" Hawkeye asked, squinting at the tiny symbol.

"Yeah – in this instance an internal one -" he paused, not wanting to put her more on edge but knowing she wanted his honesty, "without a solution. I'm guessing then the two 'snakes' are mutually exclusive. Or maybe one cancels the other out – it's hard to tell without using the array myself."

The pair looked at each other, the question lingering in the air between them: Should they let Ed try the array?

Any answer they may have had was pushed aside by a groan from the Colonel. His eyes, though groggy, held a brightness in them that made them appear utterly different from what they were while he was out. He sat up sharply and Ed hissed as he withdrew his fingers quickly to avoid touching the array. Mustang leant forward with his head in his hands and sighed. Hawkeye put her hand on his back and asked gently if he was alright.

Then he spoke. His mouth, slack from his fainting moved tiredly but even that couldn't account for the strange jumble of sounds that spilled out from him. His ire sounded familiar, and so too did his tone but if Ed wasn't mistaken, the words themselves sounded Xingese.

Hawkeye and Ed exchanged a look, the Lieutenant coaxing her Colonel to a more upright position and supporting him there.

"Sir?" She asked.

"What the hell did you say, Colonel?" Ed asked, sliding back to his usual, insubordinate self.

Mustang took his hands away from his face and looked at both of his staff as if they were stupid.

"I said, 'my head is killing me – I need a drink.'" He repeated with condescension biting at his words.

"Sir – no you didn't." Hawkeye replied, trying her best to hide her increasing apprehension.

Mustang glared at her and choked out a derisive laugh.

"Yes, Lieutenant. I did."

"No you didn't." Hawkeye and Ed replied in unison, both of them annoyed at his insistence despite him currently being the least qualified person in the room to comment on what he did or did not just say or do.

"You speak Xingese, Colonel?" Ed asked but had to repeat himself as the Colonel was hit by another wave of dizziness and fell forward slightly. He recovered himself, his head snapping back with a painful crack of his neck.

"Is that supposed to be funny, Fullmetal?" He asked but found it difficult to glower as the room shifted out of focus again. He felt so _tired_.

Hawkeye didn't want to give the alchemists time to descend into argument. Finally, with the Colonel awake again, she felt she was ready to take control of the disquieting situation.

"Did you notice anything when that woman jumped on you before, Sir?" She asked.

Mustang laughed for a brief second before his face fell into a scowl. He lifted a shaking hand to to rub at his head but succeeded only in grabbing air. He flexed his fingers, doubt showing clearly in his pale, drawn face. His co-ordination was terrible in the aftermath of his collapse and Hawkeye noted his sloppy actions with concern welling in her stomach.

"Did I notice anything? Aside from her busy hand? No." He answered tartly.

Hawkeye motioned for Ed to support him from the back while she placed her hand on his shoulder, ready to reveal what was hidden beneath his shirt.

"I think both hands were busy, Sir. You have an array on your shoulder and I think she put it there." She said, pulling back his shirt.

Mustang looked at the mess of skin with the white array in the middle of it. He blinked heavily, struggling to focus on the array and deal with the new nugget of information. Ed's hand shifted on his back and he snapped his head sideways as if noticing all over again that he and Hawkeye weren't alone in the room.

"When did you get here, kid?" He asked.

Ed snarled at him. "You were just talking to me a minute ago, idiot."

Mustang looked at him with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out if he was being made a fool of. He was finding it difficult to remember a few seconds ago, never mind minutes. He realised then that there was something important he should be looking at. His brows furrowed as he tried to get back on track.

"The array, Sir." Hawkeye prompted but she sighed when he looked at her blankly. "On your shoulder." He drew his face in a frown and looked to his right. "Left shoulder, Sir."

Mustang pulled on his shirt to reveal the array again.

"Branded with an array, huh?" He asked, then lowered his eyes at his Lieutenant. There was something in them she didn't recognise, or like. "How novel." He leered.

Mustang noticed the inappropriateness of what he said immediately. He saw hurt flicker briefly in Hawkeye's eyes before he hid his own behind shaking hands, not even knowing where the comment had come from. It was so obviously hurtful and a pang of guilt drove into him because he thought he would never say a thing like that, not after what he had done.

He shuddered at the memory of Hawkeye's own back, branded with her father's alchemic research and scarred by his flames from when he destroyed it on her distraught request. His head was now thumping and he was fighting to keep himself involved in the reality of the situation.

"What the hell happened?" He asked, trying to stand but failing miserably.

Hawkeye let her hand keep him where he was.

"I think we need to get it off you before it's activated again, Mustang. It seems to be taking its toll on your -" Ed started.

"Get what off me?" Mustang asked. He turned his head sharply to Ed again. "I – what are you doing here Fullmetal?"

"I think you're going senile, Colonel." Ed answered, only half joking.

"Ed!" Hawkeye snapped at the young alchemist. "Don't..."

Mustang rolled his head back and laughed whimsically. "Why am I on the floor?"

Hawkeye's nostrils flared as she thrust her hands under his arms for the third time that afternoon and wrenched him to his feet, aided only slightly by Ed. She guided her superior roughly to the couch and shoved him onto it.

"You're not taking this seriously enough, Colonel. You've collapsed twice now and seem to be struggling to keep hold of your thoughts even more than you usually do." She said, towering over him with Ed standing smiling awkwardly at her elbow. Mustang glanced between the two of them.

"Please, Lieutenant, not in front of the kid." He said but his facetiousness was met by Hawkeye unceremoniously grabbing back his shirt collar and revealing the array. She pointed her finger at it and pushed Ed forward.

"How do we get it off?" She asked sternly.

Ed was caught between the two officers staring at each other - Hawkeye with daggers in her eyes and Mustang wearing his trademark smirk that inspired the desire to do unfettered damage to his smug face. The tension was broken somewhat by the Colonel stretching and breaking eye contact with the Lieutenant.

"How did she get it on?" Mustang asked through a yawn. The memory of the array floated back to him but the enormity of the situation was being pushed slowly to the back of his mind. He couldn't remember the last time he was so tired.

Hawkeye allowed Ed to explain the situation to Mustang, while her eyes never left him for a second. The darkness in his eyes she had spotted before was definitely gone, but in its place was a bone tired and ragged shadow of her Colonel. Even in his lowest moments he still held some poise, at present he was barely managing to hold himself upright.

"We need to burn it off then." Mustang said simply before standing shakily.

"What?" Ed shouted, horrified at the suggestion. "You sure you're all there Colonel?"

"If we cut it out, the wound will scar in the same pattern. Draw a line across it and it will still be readable – not ideal at any upcoming medicals. Burning is the most efficient way to destroy the array. It's clean and local and I can do it myself." Mustang answered, finally managing to put some strength back into his voice.

"Says the pyromaniac..." Ed muttered, looking to Hawkeye for some support. He found none though as he saw that she was won over by the Colonel's reasoning. 'Typical', he thought, aware that he was no longer the alchemic authority in the room.

Mustang pulled on his right glove only to have it yanked off by Hawkeye. She slapped him round the arm with it before throwing it to Ed.

"You're in no shape to-" She started.

"I'm in perfect shape to." Mustang countered, pulling on his left glove only to have that yanked off and thrown away too. He stared at her, but she faced him down, her hands placed firmly on her hips.

Ed felt as though he were eavesdropping on some kind of domestic affair. He felt himself involuntarily take a step towards the door.

"You can't even see straight."

"I don't need to. I know where my damn shoulder is, Hawkeye."

"You could misfire." She was quickly losing patience. She almost wished he would hurry up and collapse again.

The Colonel scoffed. "I don't misfire."

"You misfire all the time." She retorted, their voices steadily rising.

Outside the office the others were put at ease somewhat by the sudden sound of bickering.

"That's called flair, Lieutenant. I suppose you wouldn't recognise it – there's not much flair in shooting a gun." He spun to Ed. "Fullmetal - pass me that glove." The Colonel demanded, holding his hand out expectantly. Unfortunately, his hand was outstretched about thirty degrees off where the glove _actually_ was. All three regarded the scope of Mustang's lack of spatial perception before Hawkeye grabbed a letter opener off her Colonel's desk. Mustang huffed, knowing that, as per usual, his penchant for demonstration had lost him an argument with his Lieutenant.

"You can sketch the array for us, Ed? You remember enough?" Hawkeye asked. The boy nodded. "Thank you. We'll have the room now." She smiled warmly at the alchemist, signalling that he had done everything he could and it was time for him to step out of the ring.

"Don't singe your ego, Colonel." Ed called back as he exited the office, thankful to be away from the heated interaction. As he made his way out though, his mind was already turning over the various aspects and meanings of the array. He had made a mental note of it and would sketch it later for careful study with Al.

Hawkeye stormed across the office and picked up one of the gloves, returning to Mustang and sliding it over his left hand. She pushed him back to the couch and sat down next to him.

"I need you to create a small flame." She said tightly. "Small, Colonel." She added with warning.

Mustang conceded, clicking his fingers and creating a small but intense burst of fire that hovered above his fingers, casting unnatural shadows onto his face. Hawkeye noticed for the first time the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, his general condition seeming to have worsened even in the short space of time since he first fainted.

"Are you okay?" She asked, holding the blade of the letter opener in the flame.

Mustang laughed, the small fire wavering as he did. "You're very resourceful." He said by way of evasion, gesturing to the letter opener and figuring she intended to use the blade to burn off the array.

"So are you, Sir," she answered before adding, "when it comes to avoiding a straight answer..."

The blade started to glow bright orange and she withdrew it from the flame. Mustang let the fire peter out and dropped his hand to his side, pulling back his shirt to expose the array.

Hawkeye swallowed, daunted by the poetics of the role reversal about to take place.

Mustang staid her hand. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked, the orange of the blade reflected back twice in his black eyes.

"Event plus response equals outcome, Sir. This is for the best." She said, smiling at the military jargon, knowing he would find her using it twee and typical. It was almost a private joke at this point in their unorthodox relationship.

She could feel her superior staring at her as she brought the blade against the array, the skin sizzling immediately. The smell of burning flesh filled the air between them in a millisecond and her heart felt heavy for the memories the scent would conjure up for the Colonel. His eyes never left her and he showed no sign that the small procedure pained him other than the twitching of the muscles beneath the skin of his shoulder. As she flipped the knife over to remove the second half of the array, some skin lifted and stayed stuck to the upper side of the blade. Hawkeye had to bite her tongue but Mustang's still face and staring eyes revealed nothing. Though she had only spent seconds searing the array off, the flesh was already a ruined disc of mottled pink and red. A few filmy blisters began to rise out of the mess and the dead flesh clinging to the blade smoked terribly.

She was reminded of how unnatural the life of a soldier was, trained to not flinch at even the most painful sensations. The state alchemists lived the concept even more fully, trained to be as cold and unfeeling as the gun in her holster.

"Brings you back, huh?" He asked.

Hawkeye smiled sadly and placed the blade against his shoulder again, noticing that some of the array remained. "I guess you can call us even now, Mr Mustang." She said, her reference to him recalling the days when he studied alchemy under her father. They both smiled sadly at that.

They were so still in the seconds that followed, Hawkeye with her left hand resting on Mustang's taut right arm and their faces a breath apart, that the only sound was the almost unnoticeable wheezing of the hot blade against the Colonel's ravaged skin.

Hawkeye, looked down shyly, licking her lips as a strand of hair fell into her eyes. Her left hand tightened slightly against his right arm and she looked back up again, moved by the ink black intensity of her Colonel's eyes. A shiver ran the length of her spine.

Being an alchemist, Roy Mustang was not one to believe in signs but he knew that if ever circumstance was to reach out and smack him on the jaw saying, 'kiss her': this was it.

He cleared his throat and leant forward, praying to all that was good in the world that he wasn't about to make a complete fool out of himself and spook the woman he loved.

The fates were not on his side as he was stopped by the office door swinging open to reveal a sweating Hughes.

Mustang's head fell to his chest, thoroughly devastated by the interruption. Hawkeye snapped the blade away from his shoulder and stood saluting awkwardly with the letter opener still in her right hand. The alchemist was certain that if he looked dreadful before, he was sure to appear absolutely tragic at that moment. They had been so close.

"Roy-" Hughes panted, "What the fuck?"

Mustang couldn't agree more.


	10. Shattered Glasses

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist

Thanks again to all for your kind reviews - very much appreciated.

*Alchemy lesson as led by Mustang is a blend of Western philosophy and notes taken from the manga - so thought it right to disclaim that too. Yeo.

* * *

Nestor Mot lay panting on the splintered floorboards. Sweat trickled across his forehead and into the cavities of his ears in hot little beads. His breath broke in shuddering pants that thrummed through the tiny space of his lodgings. It took a few seconds of winded recollection for him to realise that he was weeping, the tears cutting warm paths across his fluttering cheeks. He couldn't remember when exactly he had fallen from the chair. He recalled a shocking recoil when he last used the array and knew at once that Mustang's people must have destroyed the branded pattern within minutes. He knew somehow that the blonde woman was involved and his hackles hitched at the thought of her. She was so utterly in the way.

Still though, even as he wept and panted he was full of joy – it was him. He had finally found Wei Po-Yang. He cracked open the living tomb of Roy Mustang and looked upon an ancient, coiled and magnificent soul. He knew it as soon as he found purchase on the Colonel, feeling as he did a dark, syrupy entity resting in the very centre of the man. It was beautiful: dense and rich and treacle thick. The soul of Wei Po-Yang: the harvester of truth.

Feelings from the encounter surged back to Mot as he lay recovering. The sensation of grabbing at the soul of another human mixed with all of his theories and wildest imaginings. The mystery of the secreted soul of Po-Yang was unwinding and dissolving before him and it was glorious. It was as though he could still feel the grit and substance of Mustang _and_ Po-Yang on his hands. His spine shuddered as he remember a point when both souls brushed then pivoted against each other for the briefest of moments in the maelstrom of his workings. He wondered then how close he had really come to bringing Po-Yang to fruition, even in that simple experiment. The ambition fell away however as he remembered the impression of Mustang's spirit with a flexing of his sweating fingers. The soul of the Flame Alchemist was still much too robust.

There was something in the fabric of the Colonel that managed to force Po-Yang into submission again almost instantly, ancient and fermented as the old spirit was. Mot felt one thing very clearly in his exploration of the Flame Alchemist; the weight of Mustang's soul was so leaden it was touching on the grotesque. The journalist Clifford mentioned Operation Market Garden but Mot had to wonder just how many people the young Colonel had killed. He doubted very much the man knew himself. It would be impossible to put an exact figure to the deaths attributable to his efforts. He could make a vague guess though and the number was so vast that Mot could well imagine the reason for the weightiness of Mustang's being. Two black and coal dense souls sewn into the same pretty body. Mot smacked his lips at that.

For the entire time he spent working on his investigation into Wei Po-Yang he had always assumed that the ancient alchemist planned to hitch-hike with Mustang until the time was right for him to emerge once more. Following that afternoon however, he realised that it was most likely never Po-Yang's intention to allow Mustang's soul to be in there with him. In fact, he would be willing to bet that Po-Yang never considered the possibility that he would not be able to oust the resident soul from whichever body he chose to cast himself into.

Whatever snap and bitterness he felt in Po-Yang's soul told him that much at least. Mustang's soul may have been weighty but Po-Yang's was something different altogether. Mot didn't really know how to describe it – refracted? Crooked? Not substantial but tangled, fetid: _off._ He wondered what hundreds of years of waiting for a glorious rebirth only to find yourself locked behind the mind of another would do to a soul as great and ingenious as Po-Yang's.

He was broken from his thoughts by the click and creak of the front door opening as Ahu Kamaka lumbered into the small living room. Mot bent his head back to regard the huge shape of the woman upside down. She was looking at him with narrowed, expectant and disgusted eyes.

"Well...?" She asked, pushing the door closed without looking.

Mot stood shakily and allowed a childish grin to wash onto his face. "It's him."

Kamaka was staring at him and it was hard to perceive her relief in the jealous black orbs that regarded him so intensely. She walked towards him slowly without speaking. Mot began to feel nervous, surely he was not expendable now that they confirmed Mustang as the chalice of the lost harvester, Po-Yang. He still hadn't perfected his final array; she would be useless without him.

"Aren't you going to say anything? It's him. Our search is over." He said, trying his best to sound strong.

"Mot -" She began, lifting a finger and trailing it down the side of his face. "Do not expect me to throw you a bone until you figure out how to turn that greasy little bastard-child inside out. I want Po-Yang, not that excuse for a Xingese boy playing at being Amestrian hero."

Mot was struggling to keep optimistic about his findings in the face of Kamaka's scathing appraisal of Colonel Mustang. No more than an hour ago she had been looking at the Flame Alchemist with lustful, hungry eyes. "But the Colonel – he's glorious, he's our -"

Kamaka slapped Mot hard and grabbed his chin. "Grow up weed! You're an alchemist aren't you?" She pulled harder at him. "You are supposed to love the truth, not the pretence. He is a _veneer_, a charlatan, a seed that refuses to give forth the life that's inside it. He is very pretty – yes, but we forget that our only purpose now is to split him wide open and fulfil our goal."

She released him with a shove. Mot rubbed at his jaw, disbelief hitting him full in the stomach. How could she speak about the Colonel that way when she had been so enthusiastic before. He could see her fat face leering at the young man during the debate.

"What's changed?" He asked meekly.

"Your findings have reminded me of my priorities. You would do well to remember yours." Her eyes snaked down to his crotch and her lip curled in a taut snarl. "Clean yourself up. It's embarrassing."

With that, she left Mot standing alone in the middle of the living room. She was lying. There must be some other reason for her vitriol towards their prize. She must be trying to put him off: to tarnish the image of his precious Colonel in his own mind.

It was at that precise moment Nestor Mot decided how he would kill the great Bone Alchemist.

* * *

Ed threw himself down on the hard couch of the dorm lounge, rubbing sorely at his head. Al sat down more delicately, concern written into what scant features he possessed.

The boys sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, a sketched copy of Mustang's involuntary array lying on the table in front of them. It was Al who finally broke the silence.

"Will he be okay?" He asked quietly, finding himself unable to draw his eyes away from the sinister alchemic circle.

Ed found himself similarly powerless against the force of the apparently simple design. He shrugged tiredly.

"I don't know."

The simple solemn answer was enough to pull Al's attention away from the array and onto the tired form of his older brother. Were he in possession of one, his heart would have skipped a beat at the sight. There was an muted sadness to his brother's countenance ever since Mustang's episode and although Al didn't want to upset him further, he needed to know exactly what happened behind the closed door of the Colonel's office.

When Mustang was walked out of the private room, propped up by Hawkeye and Hughes, the entire office fell into a deafeningly quiet and numbing observance. Al warranted that not one of Mustang's staff had ever seen their superior in such a state: shoulders slumped, eyes dull and face shameful. He didn't look at anyone as the trio made their exit. Only Hughes made an apologetic smile as they dragged themselves into the corridor and away from the team. Everyone felt the rebound and everyone would have a lot to think about that night.

Their Colonel wasn't infallible after all. Like he said during the debate: he could die just as well as any of the rest of them. Where would they all be then? Their whole careers, their _lives_ would be rendered purposeless in one fell swoop. How long had that small team been substituting success with ambition, immortality with faith in their leader? Al supposed that his brother was right in many ways: Mustang _was_ a great manipulator. It seemed he had managed to convince his followers that he was as invincible as any homunculus. What did the newspapers call it? A cult of personality. Except instead of an aggressive use of the media and fear mongering, Mustang had achieved the same thing by simply _being_.

"Brother-" Al began but was cut off by Ed's huffing voice.

"I don't want to talk about it, Al."

Al let a short silence fill the space between them before he cautioned another attempt to rouse the attention of his brother.

"I know I don't have a silver pocket watch or a state certification but he's my Colonel too..." His voice was so quiet that only a brother could hear and understand what was said.

Ed finally turned his gaze away from the array and looked at the suit of armour. He swallowed a lump and found he had to fight back the impossible feeling that he was about to cry. Impossible because the Colonel was a pain in the ass and deserved everything that was coming to him. He was a cheat, a manipulator and stood opposite more or less every value Ed held dear. Of all the people in the world, why would Ed waste his tears on a pompous bastard like Roy Mustang?

The young alchemist was finding it hard to believe his own petulant denial though. In those first few awful moments he thought he saw the end of Mustang and his world collapsed. A huge tidal wave of 'What ifs?' slammed into him again for the umpteenth time. What if they actually lost him? What if there _was_ no Colonel Bastard riding his back and making a general nuisance of himself? What then?

"Brother-" Al pressed gently, torn between sympathy for his brother and concern for the Colonel, a man he barely knew but respected inherently. A man that could put Ed in his place or stand him on his feet better than even their own father could. Al didn't have a chance to ponder on this any further as Ed rasped out the terrible thought that had been troubling him all afternoon.

"I swear to God, Al, I thought he was dead." He said and had to follow it up with a hefty sigh as that impossible feeling returned. "He _looked_ dead."

Al's arm stretched across the table and comfort Ed but he thought better of it and dragged the array towards him instead.

"The array – what did it do? What happened to him?"

Ed's golden eyes rose slowly to meet the glowing, smoky orbs of his brother. "I don't know. I can't figure out how it all ties together. He was just gone. Absent. There was nothing there. Nothing."

"Oh-" Al mumbled before stopping any further thoughts from making themselves known. He would get an explanation when the dust of his brother's worried thoughts settled.

The two boys fell into silence again, eyes drifting back to the simple lines and circles of the impossible array.

* * *

Hawkeye, Hughes and Mustang gathered around a table, each with a glass of whiskey in their hands: it could have been Ishbal all over again. Except instead of whipping sands, distant blasts and repetitive klaxons, there was now the soft 'drip drip' of Mustang's tap and the muffled sound of the Colonel's scratching. Black Hayate too was a new addition to the trio, sleeping soundly at his master's feet.

"Stop that, Sir." Hawkeye chided but he ignored her without acknowledgement or apology. She grabbed his hand had forced it back to the table, looking him squarely in the eye. "Stop it." She repeated.

"It's itchy." The Colonel defended, his voice gravel-like with tiredness but still conveying a childish whine.

"Not as itchy as an infection will be, Sir." Hawkeye said, her steady eyes continuing to lock on his without any hint of humour.

Mustang made a facetious face at her and stretched his hands into the centre of the table to grab at an empty glass and a small jug of water. He pulled them closer to him with a grumble. His chastisement had stopped him from beginning his makeshift demonstration of the basics of biological alchemy. He cleared his throat before speaking again, picking up a packet of coffee beans as he did so.

"Try your best to stay with me Hughes." He smirked at his old friend who couldn't quite muster the amusement to smirk back. Mustang cleared his throat again uncomfortably. It was as though he had done something terribly wrong the way the pair beside him were behaving. Wasn't he the victim in this scenario? For one thing, his 'dearest subordinate' was still throbbing painfully from when the giant of a woman grabbed at it. She was not only a skilled alchemist but apparently the proud owner of some kind of death grip. As well as that, his head was pounding and he was still struggling to keep track of himself. Every now and then a little bile would make itself known in his throat as he remembered the fragmented memories of his encounter. His mind was definitely more settled but those key moments of disorientation were worrying. He didn't even know how to say 'hello' in Xingese let alone moan in the language and call for a drink.

He would have to settle with distracting himself in his company until they cleared off and he could crawl onto the couch with the remainder of the whiskey – no matter his impending meeting with the Fuhrer the following morning. There would be time for reflection on the subject after that.

He set about arranging his props of glass, jug and coffee beans as he spoke. "So people – humans – are made up of three integral components and one external aspect, yes?" Hawkeye and Hughes nodded and he carried on. "We are all born with a body, mind and soul and they exist within an environment: our world."

He picked up the glass and set it in front of the other two. "Our bodies. A receptacle, a frame, a vehicle. With me?" Another two nods.

He picked up the jug and poured water into the glass until it was almost full. "Our minds. What we learn and what we _must _know to survive. This -" he tapped the surface of the water, "is what tells us to breathe, to swallow, to scratch our backsides – all the pedestrian stuff of keeping things ticking over. Secondary to that, it provides all the facilities that let us collect and learn. Everyone's _this_ looks more or less the same. Some people have a little more, some have a little less. Good?" He took their silence as consent.

He then plucked out a handful of coffee beans and dropped them into the glass. In a few seconds they settled to the bottom and rested there. "The soul." He said with a little more gravity this time. Were he more alert, he may have noted a shiver from Hawkeye to his right. "It lies beneath and between both the mind and the body. Every single soul is absolutely different – those coffee beans are all different sizes and shapes, and could have landed in an uncountable combination of positions." He noticed Hawkeye then, her wide eyes fixed to the glass in front of her and her mouth set in a sombre line. Mustang had to steel himself before continuing as another wave of nausea washed into his empty stomach.

"I can touch the water without touching the glass and I can touch the glass without touching the water, but the soul is the single component of humanity that is locked away within those two other parts, hidden almost. It is liminal and ethereal. You can weigh a body and examine a mind but a soul is out with our limits of scrutiny and influence – until alchemy is used of course. Is this making sense?"

Hughes drew his eyes from the glass and levelled them at the alchemist. "As much sense as you ever make, Roy."

"Haw haw." Mustang deadpanned in response before growing suddenly excited. "Chalk." He whispered to himself and searching through his pockets, found a stubby piece to draw with.

"You carry chalk with you?" Hughes asked.

"You have knives up your sleeve man, please try to temper your criticism." Mustang retorted, holding the chalk between his finger and thumb in front of his friend. "Besides, in a fight I could beat you every time using only this little chap..."

"Not if I threw some fat lady on you first-" Hughes couldn't resist but both men quieted themselves as Hawkeye shifted her chair with noisy impatience.

Mustang cleared some space on the table and drew an array that loosely resembled that used by the bloated alchemist on his shoulder. He talked his friends through the various aspects, explaining why he had substituted some symbols for others in order to get his demonstration to work. With the array finished, he placed the glass in the centre of it.

"Me-" he pointed to the glass. "My shoulder-" his hand drifted around the span of the array. His friends looked on expectantly and he allowed a couple of seconds to pass in order to build up more anticipation.

"Ta-da-" he droned sarcastically and touched his fingers to the array. As he did, the lines were swept with blue light and the glass shifted violently to the side, some of the water spilling out and over the rim. The beans swirled madly until they settled once more at the bottom. Both Hawkeye and Hughes jumped slightly while Mustang sat back, quite satisfied with his demonstration and failing to display any sign that the analogy was disturbingly accurate: spilt 'mind-water' et al.

Hawkeye was first to collect herself. "But why?" She asked, her fingers gingerly tracing the edges of the circle. "Why you? What did they want to achieve?"

Hughes' questioning eyes added weight to Hawkeye's line of enquiry.

Mustang thought for a moment then smirked to himself. "Well, I suppose they might have been hoping for something more like this." On the final word, he slammed his hands down on the table. The effect was instantaneous. With the extra force and energy of the transmutation, the glass imploded, sending a spray of water upwards and a thousand shards of glass skidding across the table. The coffee beans lay scattered on the surface. The metaphor was lost on no one. Not even the poor dog who leapt up from his place on the floor and scooted behind Hawkeye's legs, whining at the unnatural scent of alchemy in the air.

"I'm not sure though – this symbol for sublimation is worrying me..." Mustang said without much weight or sign that he was, in fact, worried.

"Well – that _is_ something..." Hughes pondered, wiping the water from his thighs that had run off the table. "Okay, Roy – You can call me for all the insubordinate curs this side of the Eastern desert but I am telling you here and now: no more secrets, no more poor communication and no more of your games. All three of us, everything we know or think we know about this business is coming out in the open right now. We're having a case conference and you're the lucky boy in the middle of it - "

Mustang laughed. "What? I've told you both-"

"You told Riza about your fit at the party?" Hughes asked, knowing of course, that Mustang wouldn't have breathed a word of it to his second-in-command.

"What?" They all said at the same time before turning to face each other, Hughes' response more belligerent than the indignation of the other two.

"Just wait a second there, Hughes – you knew Christmas was burgled and didn't tell me." Mustang countered.

"Yes, and you _knew_ I knew and didn't tell Riza or me." Hughes answered sharply.

"I-"

Hawkeye was staring disbelievingly at them both.

"But-" Mustang was dumbfounded, a telltale grimace-smile on his face told them that he knew he was caught.

The Lieutenant Colonel only raised an eyebrow at his best friend, a companion he was very much at risk of losing given the unwarranted intervention. Mustang turned his head from left to right to look at both of them, feeling utterly flummoxed by Hughes' ambush. He couldn't possibly be as bad as the Lieutenant Colonel was making him seem.

"I-" He faltered again. Surely he wasn't so terrible that Hughes had to blow the whistle on him. A hand came to rest on his and he looked towards his Lieutenant's serious eyes.

"It's okay, Sir." She said firmly. "We just don't want any more shattered glasses. The more each of us knows the more we can do to prevent that."

Mustang swallowed and held her gaze. Not only had Hughes interrupted his advances on his Lieutenant before, now he had unearthed his episode from the party in front of her. He found himself wishing he could throttle the investigator for the second time that day.

He stood with a screech of his chair and prowled towards the living room, calling back as he went.

"We need more whiskey for this."

* * *

After Ed managed to start talking about the array, the brothers continued to chatter solemnly throughout the evening, hushing themselves only when the news came on the radio. They wanted to listen out for any coverage of the debate as surely there would be.

The newscaster moved through updates on the valiant efforts of the Amestrian soldiers in the various border disputes and campaigns in motion throughout the week. The stories were different but somehow always the same. It seemed that regardless of whether the soldiers were valiant or not, they were certainly successful in ruthlessly subduing whatever trouble there was. It was unfortunate that these were campaigns of success by any means. Diplomacy seemed to be about as popular as the insurgents themselves.

As the news turned to the debate, Ed smiled reluctantly as he heard the strong voice of the Colonel carry out from the wireless. The tinny quality of the machine did nothing to detract from that unmistakable tone. The young alchemist had to admit it – the man knew what he was talking about when it came to fighting and valour. Ed had heard about enough about bravery in his short lifetime to put him off the concept for life.

His heart clenched slightly as the report wound up with a light hearted retelling of the Colonel's molestation. It seemed that one journalist was lucky enough to have left his tape running and had caught the whole thing: Mustang's yelp of surprise and all.

Ed and Al broke into a reluctant, nervous chuckle before the tension of the day got the better of them and they found themselves howling with dry laughter, despite the morbid outcome of the incident. The report continued on unheard.

The scratchy sound of the fat lady's cries carried across the airwaves and into the dying light of another winter's day,_ "Po-Yang you damnable swine! We've found you at last! Po-Yang lives! You gorgeous little casket." _

The brothers may not have been listening, but plenty were. Enough, at least, to matter.

* * *

Hawkeye and Hughes smiled at the sight in front of them: Mustang with legs wide open, palms up and head back against the top of the chaise longue. Having moved into the comfort of the living room some time ago, the two subordinates were discussing a few minor details amongst themselves when they were roused from their conversation by the sound of snoring. Alone on the chaise longue, Mustang must have fallen asleep in a matter of seconds while neither of them were looking. Clearly his participation in Hughes' spontaneous case conference had taken a little too much out of him. His left hand twitched almost imperceptibly as he slept and his taut throat showed the thrum of his steady breathing.

Hughes smiled across at Hawkeye who was sat comfortably in the other armchair, her stoic manner loosened somewhat by the whiskey. She couldn't remember the last time she drank on a working night but the dulling comfort was definitely required after the day's events. Hayate was curled in the space between both armchairs, his claws scratching lightly on the wooden flooring as he dreamt.

"What do you think we should do with him?" Hughes asked with humour.

Hawkeye considered Mustang for a moment before responding. "We could use this opportunity to tie him up and keep him from getting into any more trouble..."

They laughed a little at that but the sound died as the image of the shattered glass squeezed its way into both of their minds.

There was something unsaid that was filling the space between them. Neither wanted to be the first to say it for whichever one did would be vulnerable to misinterpretation. Hawkeye didn't want to be misunderstood and Hughes didn't want to insult or cajole Hawkeye. Still though, one of them had to say something eventually and Hughes figured it may as well be him.

"Someone should stay with him." He said quietly. Simply.

Hawkeye's face froze for a moment then she raised her glass and took a long sip.

"Yes." She answered finally, a flush already bleeding onto her pale cheeks. "His meeting with the Fuhrer..."

"He would never get up otherwise." Hughes added, a chuckle breaking through his careful demeanour as he looked again at the sight of his friend's ridiculous position on the couch. "I mean – look at him."

That prompted a brittle laugh from the controlled Lieutenant. The Colonel did look a little silly.

They exchanged a few more uncomfortable suggestions and questions about the logistics of Hawkeye staying, both agreeing that it wouldn't do for Hughes to do the honours. He had a family of his own after all. They decided that it was best to make the Colonel as comfortable as possible on the chaise longue while Hawkeye would take his bed. Her stomach dropped at the thought. She supposed then that she _would_ be joining the ranks of Mustang's legion of bedded women.

Walking Hughes to the door to bid him goodbye, Hawkeye felt suddenly nervous to be left alone with the Colonel. She stuttered out the beginnings of a sentence in some attempt to prolong Hughes' stay.

The Lieutenant Colonel turned to her, his curiosity softening into simple and unabashed kindness. He closed the gap between himself and the Lieutenant.

"Riza, darling-" He began, feeling her nervousness radiate off her like heat. "I don't know what that idiot on the couch said to you on Friday night, but let me tell you something: there are two photographs of you in this house and both of them are laid face down. Have a think about why that might be."

Hawkeye stared back blankly, unable to think or speak.

"He'll kill me for this," Hughes continued, grimacing somewhat and looking away. After a second he gathered some resolve and taking Hawkeye by the elbow, addressed her quietly and seriously. "What I mean is – you know he's terrible at facing his demons and I'm afraid you're one of them. He has the pictures because - well - it would be ridiculous for him not to." He leaned closer. "They're face down, Riza because he can't bear to look at you knowing you're not his."

Judging from her expression, Hawkeye's nervousness had turned into all out fear. Hughes' hand tightened on her elbow.

"Listen Riza, truthfully I think he's felt this way for years but he's – I'm pretty sure he's fed up wasting time. In this business, a glass can be smashed at any moment – scary thought when they only come in sets of two..."

A laugh burst out of him when her expression deepened further still and he moved his hand to grab fondly and firmly at her shoulder. "Don't look so glum! If the two of you would just stop martyring yourselves left, right and centre-"

"But his – _our_ goal..." She said solemnly, her eyes focussed on the floor. "We have so much to accomplish."

Hughes smiled. "Riza, good people are allowed to be happy too. We forget that too often when we look at the villains at the helm of this country. Don't you want to be happy? Don't you want that for him?"

Hawkeye smiled back at Hughes and shrugged him off with playful resistance before pushing him towards the door.

"Now I know why the Colonel avoids you in the canteen..." she said.

Hughes turned the latch and pulled open the door allowing a wall of cold air to push its way into the room.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek before stepping out into the purple of evening. "It's up to you, Riza. Just tell him 'no' if he's not your cup of tea. He's been through worse. Good night!"

Riza waved tiredly as she watched the tall man walk briskly down the path and along the foggy street.

She closed the door and stood still for what felt like a very long time. How in the world could circumstance have lead to this?

She moved towards the dark linen-chest in the corner of the room with Hayate at her heels and pulled out a thick woollen blanket. She cast a cautious glance at the sleeping man and made her way towards him, blanket stretched between her two hands like a net. It felt more like trying to catch a dangerous animal than putting a man to bed.

She stood over his recumbent body and regarded the rise and fall of his chest. How wonderful that movement was and how utterly different his still and sleeping face was from the horrid, empty stare of his array troubled body earlier that day. She had to swallow back upset in her throat and squeeze down the urge to cry. Relief could be a difficult emotion to keep hold of. She broke herself from her reverie and set the blanket aside. Stooping to take the Colonel by his shoulder and move his torso gently downwards, she used one hand to support his head until his cheek touched the soft cotton of the cushion. She then bent to the side and lifted his two feet up to rest on the other end of the couch.

On leaning to get the blanket, she found her movement restricted and thought that she must have trapped the outer skirt of her uniform under the Colonel's legs. She reached back to loosen it but her eyes locked on what was stopping her. The fingers of the Colonel's left hand were hooked behind the belt of her holster. She thought immediately that he must be awake as the digits were so firmly set behind the leather band, but on inspection his face showed no sign of waking. She looked at Hayate, at a loss at what to do but was met only with a whine and a curious tilt of the dog's head.

She tried to pry the fingers from her belt but the action inspired more movement as the Colonel groaned and pulled hard on her belt until she was forced to sit against him on the couch. Suspicion quickened in her mind and she stared hard at him again, trying to discern if there was any scheming in the lines of his face. It was clear though that the man was exhausted and out cold.

'It's up to you, Riza.' Wasn't that what Hughes had said?

Wasting time. Wasting their time. Time that could be spent together. She couldn't possibly dare believe that this was happening, that after years of suppression and pretence there would be some great epiphany in the story of the Flame Alchemist and his tutor's daughter. She allowed a hand to settle on his cheek, a braver action than she ever thought possible. He was so close. _They_ were so close. The smashed glass, the scarred shoulder, the party, the piano, the nights they laughed together in the office, the mornings they sulked together in the grey rains of Cenrtal; memories tumbled through her as she looked down on her Colonel.

She loved him. Of course she did. It was silly to deny it but surely it was honourable to deny herself? Hughes called her a martyr but she knew her reluctance was sensible, measured and obedient – everything the Colonel expected from her.

Another groan broke her from her thoughts, the sound this time was a lot darker and more yearning. A small tug on her belt and a shifting of his low slung hips made her mind up for her.

She stretched her arms out to their limits and caught her fingers on the edge of the blanket, tugging it towards her across the floor. She pulled off her boots and with one final sigh, lay herself down against her Colonel's warm and firm body. She tossed the blanket over the two of them and bid Hayate lie down too. "No more wasting time." She said quietly to the dog, smiling shyly down at him.

The noise and movement coaxed the hand from her belt and it snaked around her waist pulling her closer to him. She nestled against the solidness of his chest and closed her eyes as she felt his hot breath wash against the nape of her neck and under her collar. His hold grew firmer still and she found herself pushing her left leg back to lie between his, the nature of the movement causing a dark thought to creep into her mind. In his sleep, clearly he thought she was someone else, some showgirl or socialite. This was not how a Colonel related to his Lieutenant and as one thought bled into another she found herself feeling like a fool and a trespasser.

She was allowed no more fear though. She was allowed no more time wasting or doubt in the integrity of the Colonel's confession at the party. His lips brushed against the skin of her neck and stilled close to her ear, the hot and damp causing a shiver to run through her. He said one word only and that was enough.

"Riza..."


	11. Semantics

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal so...**

A/N - just a quick note to say that while I acknowledge that Amestris couldn't possibly have 'Christmas' as we know it, I think that Madame Christmas' name alone allows me some license to allude to an Amestrian Winter Festival with similar themes... yeo.

Thanks to **Southpaw **and **a****rtFULLYoutuvit **for their time spent to beta.

Thanks also for the reviews. Tally ho!

* * *

Chris Mustang loved her excursions to Xing. She lived there for a spell with her first husband, a civil engineer employed in the design and implementation of the much lauded new rail link from the south of Xing further Eastward. Though the man remained an absentee husband, kept from her by the demands of his role, Chris forged a full and active life in her time abroad. She made great friends, was a popular character in the expatriate community and it was in Southern Xing that she first found her calling in life. The up-market brothels of Shaoshan were the only establishments to sell decent whiskey and so ex-pats flocked to them en masse. There were, of course, other pleasures to be found as well.

Filled with wealthy merchants and high-ranking military officials, Chris Mustang saw a fortune where most others saw vulgarity. The girls themselves were as good a quality as the spices and silks so famous to the region, so when the time came for her to return to Amestris without her husband, she did so with a few brave girls in a bid to start her own business.

If she thought practically, she could pick up the textiles used for her showgirls' costumes from a number of outlets in Central but she found herself returning to the small, vibrant city of Shaoshan time and time again. Back in Amestris, she missed the wetted heat of the city and the myriad smells wafting out from the countless food stalls, and her heart would grow heavy for the place. Returning there on business served to satiate any longings she had for her past life. Besides, punters expected the best from her bordello and with the new rail link stretching Eastward to the heart of Xing, Shaoshan was the hub of the silk trade between the West and East.

It had been some time since her last trip to Shaoshan but after so many jaunts East, it didn't take her long to settle back in to her old routines. She nodded a few polite greetings to the staring inhabitants of the city as she laboured her way back to her hotel through the heat of high noon. She had only a tiny amount of Xingese and was loathe to use it in the open for fear of mispronunciation and embarrassing herself like so many Westerners did. With only two more days until she was due to return to Central, she was quite harried for time and was struggling to get everything done before her departure.

Wiping her brow and readying herself to cross the road: a maelstrom of bicycles, horses and the odd motor car; she found herself being pulled back by a tug at the waist of her skirt. At first she thought it might be some well-thinking local who spotted some danger on the road she had missed but her thoughts quickly turned to pick-pocketing. She spun round to face her would-be assailant only to see a child of around three or four staring back up at her with a glare on his face. He was bare chested, shoeless and dressed in shorts, his black hair mussed and filthy. His thin arms formed triangles at his sides as his hands rested belligerently on his hips and his eyes were like those of so many of the street children of Shaoshan: old, calculating and hard beyond their years. He stamped his foot.

"Madame," he said crossly, "giving me money."

Chris didn't react for a long time. She stared down at the scowling child with a thin kind of sadness – the only children who had a smattering of Amestrian were those exploited by undesirables to pickpocket and harass Westerners. 'Giving me money' was a well worn phrase drummed into many children without good homes and parents to keep them out of trouble.

Two small hands rose from his hips and shoved at her thighs in a bullying motion. "Giving me money!" He repeated, his voice cracking slightly with the effort of yelling. "Madame..." he held out a hand, opening and closing his tiny fingers in a 'pay up' motion.

Chris laughed at the gesture but her mirth only seemed to anger the boy. He spat at her feet.

Chris Mustang could abide a lot of things, but spitting was not one of them. She dropped her rolls of fabric to the dusty pavement and thrust forward to catch the boy by his thin wrists. He squealed and tried to pull back, his dirt-caked feet making shallow troughs in the dust as they slid under his efforts.

"Madame, madame, madame..." he screamed in his panic. Most Westerners were apologetic and unchallenging – not like this huge woman before him. He cringed, waiting for the worst to happen as the woman pulled back her right hand while keeping hold of both his wrists with her left.

She swiped at his backside with force, expecting the action to elicit some kind of upset, but the boy reacted as though he were anticipating a lot worse. He sniffed noisily with derision at her apparently feeble attempt at punishment.

Having been out since morning and feeling distinctly sweat-damp in the humidity, Chris Mustang decided she was finished with the child and the silly interaction. She wouldn't be spat at like a wet-behind-the-ears tourist to the region.

"Shoo!" She scolded and stamped a foot towards the rascal as though she were about to run at him. That usually did the trick in frightening off bothersome street children but this boy didn't flinch.

"Shi!" He shouted back, stamping his own small foot in return with all the clumsy co-ordination of a child his age.

"Shoo!" She said a little more sternly this time, raising her hand in warning.

"Shi!" He screamed back, drawing out the vowel until he didn't have any breath left. "Shi!" He added again with finality.

Chris wanted nothing more than to pick up her rolls of fabric and lose the little brat but something about their last interchange made her curious about the bizarre brute before her. Despite his show at bravado, there was a sharpness to his eyes that could be fear or humour or a culmination of both. Whatever it was, it caught her eye.

Here were two people who had never quite encountered anything like one and other.

The boy kicked at the dust and squinted his eyes to scrutinise her further in the hard light of the hot day.

"What-" he started with a raspy voice, his face twisting in thought as he considered where to go from there, "is my name?" He finished after a beat. The question was a common one heard from the mouths of Xingese children - the confusion of the possessive adjectives 'my' and 'your' giving occasion to many jumbled conversations between Amestrian visitors and wily, excitable children.

Chris laughed hard at the child's error and managed to provoke him crossing his arms haughtily. In spite of his mucky appearance, clearly she was dealing with a very proud boy.

"What is my name?" He rushed out again, obviously impatient with her lack of an answer and totally unaware that he was getting the question all muddled up.

Chris bowed to speak to him face to face as she corrected his error. "You mean, 'What is your name?'"

He curled his lip and blinked back at her, prompting her to ask again with more emphasis, "What is _your _name?"

"Zai Sheng Shi!" He answered with enthusiasm but he was plainly still dissatisfied with _her_ misunderstanding _him_. "Madame - what is _my_ name?" He pointed to her chest, the foreign words sounding awkward in his mouth.

Chris had to concede, she knew what he meant after all and why would the kid need to learn grammatically correct Amestrian in any case?

"Chris Must-" she began but was interrupted as the boy's face lit up and he thrust his boney arms into the air.

"Chris-must!" He shouted back. "Chris-must!" He was jumping up and down now. "Giving me money, Madame Chris-must!"

"What? Christmas? No, no-" Chris tried to assuage the child's growing excitement that she might be some harbinger of gift giving and good will.

The Amestrian winter festival had managed to bleed its way into the psyche of Western Xing, making natives of the militant nation often appear affluent and more importantly, frivolous. Their customs of gift giving and merriment did seem to paint them in an unfairly superficial light.

Chris felt genuinely sad that she would have to rain on little Zai Sheng's parade. As someone well used to begging from street children, whether it be in Central or Shaoshan, Chris Mustang had a strict policy of 'no charity'. She didn't care much if she was considered hard or not. In fact, being 'hard' suited her quite well.

She was about to calm him when the boy's croaking cheers turned into a grating fit of coughing. She could see his tiny chest compress sharply with each hacking cough. Bending on one knee to rub at his back while he recovered, she heard him hawk and thought he was going to spit at her again when instead, he doubled over. He tried to hide it as best he could with his filthy hands but Chris couldn't miss the thick rope of reddened saliva drop from his mouth followed by one solid knot of blood.

"Good grief!" She said, taking the boys chin in one hand and looking hard at his face: a face so delicate she thought for a moment that she was mistaken and was talking all the while to a little girl. The cawing voice betrayed him however.

"Madame Chris-must?" He asked through the forced purse of his lips between the woman's strong fingers.

"Where is your mother?" Chris asked back, her voice angry in a bid to dissuade any intentions of messing from the lad. To cough up blood – the poor child …

He cocked his head, not understanding the question. Chris recalled the simple Xingese word for mother and said it to him with urgency, trying her best to convey her query.

Zai Sheng considered then said slowly, deliberately, "Giving me money." Clearly the child understood that for once, his welfare could have some monetary value. If he couldn't bully her into giving him money then he would guilt her into it.

Chris was at a crossroads once again. The child really was a brat and the likelihood was that he had no mother to speak of, only a band of older kids out to make a quick buck on his back. In fact, as soon as she took out her purse he would probably have it out of her hand and be sprinting down the street in a flash. She couldn't very well just leave him either.

"No – no money. I'll get you food." She said, moving her hand from his face to his shoulder, the thinness of him making her squirm a little. He looked lost at her suggestion. "Food." She repeated and mimed eating.

She expected some resistance but the boy seemed satisfied with the outcome and still coughing a little, picked up her rolls of fabric and gestured that she should follow him. He strutted off away from her, his tiny frame swaggering as he went and the rolls of fabric trailing in the dirt behind him. She thought better than to help him, not wanting to insult his outlandish pride and instead followed with a shrug and a grimace at the dirtying of the fine silks.

She accompanied the boy to a street vendor and allowed him to order in his own tongue, only stepping forward when the gentleman behind the counter refused to serve Zai Sheng until money was exchanged.

A hot parcel was passed back and Zai Sheng shoved it straight into his pocket causing some sauce to splash out and run down the light cloth of his shorts.

He struggled to pick up the fabric with his new burden and so having received her change, Chris stopped him with a touch to his shoulder and picked up the fabric herself, easily tucking the rolls under one arm. He mumbled a Xingese 'thanks' at her and taking three of her fingers in his right hand, led her down a cool, dark alley.

As they walked, Zai Sheng looked back over his shoulder at Chris and flashed a cheeky grin. She knew, of course, that here was a rascal used to harrying tourists through an effective cocktail of aggressiveness and charm – and she had to admit, she was impressed.

The pair were getting some strange stares as they wound their way through the back alleys of Shaoshan but Zai Sheng broke into an upbeat song, swinging her hand lightly as they went. She imagined he was trying to distract himself and her from the tuts of the locals as they went. She knew Amestrians had a dreadful reputation for pandering to the youthful swindlers of the city and felt a little shame at having been won over by one of them, despite her vast experience.

After a time they drifted towards the curtained entrance of a tiny, tin roofed house and the boy held the cloth open for Chris to enter. The smell assaulted her immediately and she had to raise a hand to her mouth to stop from gagging. Zai Sheng fussed around her, taking the rolls of silk from under her arm and placing them gently on the floor. He then dragged a rickety wooden stool to a dark corner of the decrepit room and wagged her over. A mound of grey blankets covered the area and something about the sight together with the smell made Chris suddenly nervous.

Next to the blankets were tens of uneaten meals, most of them covered with flies and grubs and some already rotted away to greying matter. She realised that the boy's begging probably hadn't been for his own benefit at all. The sad slop of discarded meals drove worry into her breast. The tiny child noticed her reticence and seemed to grow nervous himself. He ran back behind her and pushed her by the flanks towards the wooden stool, repeating as he did the Xingese word for 'mother' she had used before.

He turned abruptly and burrowed under the grubby blankets, chattering as he did to the mass beneath them. She could hear 'Madame Chris-must' repeated several times and couldn't help but smile, even as her eyes watered at the squalid sight before her. How a child could hope to survive in such conditions – he was probably consumptive from the exposure and damp judging by his coughing fit before.

Her stomach clenched as the boy threw back the blankets to reveal both himself and the body of another behind him. He took a pale, bone-thin arm and wrapped it around himself but Chris could see with no mistaking that the owner of the arm, who she took to be his mother, had long since been able to make such a gesture of her own accord. The slight girl's face was waxy and drawn, her skin covered in syphilitic lesions and already fading to grey. She appeared to be some hours dead.

Zai Sheng smiled up at her with sable, expectant eyes from the deathbed of his mother. He sighed contentedly and pulled himself closer to the gruesome embrace.

* * *

Ed couldn't remember having drifted off to sleep but he found himself waking with a jolt as the telephone rang.

"Al." He said sleepily, turning on his side on the thin panel of the couch. "Al – get that."

The phone continued to ring.

Ed pried one eye open to look daggers at the empty space on the couch opposite him. "Al?" He asked, lifting himself stiffly to a sitting position. His automail always gave him trouble on first waking, whether it be a short nap or a marathon lie-in.

Ed was about to drag himself to answer the phone when his brother emerged from the bedroom. As the suit of armour reached the phone, the ringing stopped. Al looked uncomfortably at the telephone before turning back to his brother apologetically.

"Sorry -" he said quietly. He sloped over to the couch and sat himself down delicately.

"Don't worry-" Ed started but was interrupted by the phone ringing again. "Must be important." The young alchemist said, raising himself sorely and making his way over to the phone.

"Hello?" He grumbled, pulling the phone away sharply as it crackled loudly into his ear.

"Ed..." the voice pushed through the white noise as little more than a whisper.

"Teacher?" Ed asked, recognising the faint noise as the voice of Izumi Curtis. He turned to Al who was staring back with muted concern written between the scant features of his armour.

"Ed … Must … Cent-" She said, the bad line swallowing her words with ease.

"Teacher – this line is terrible. Can you hear me?" He asked, rolling his eyes at his brother.

"Shut up and listen, Elric." Her voice cut through sharply.

'Typical' Ed thought, if any piece of conversation was going to make it through without error, that would be it.

He could hear some fidgeting before the line grew marginally clearer.

"Ed there's a storm … line … hear me … important."

"A little – go ahead." Ed answered, pressing the phone to his ear now in spite of the terrible crackling.

"I … to get to Colonel …"

"Mustang?" Ed questioned. On hearing that, Al stood and moved closer to his brother.

"Yes … radio … a woman … heard … Po-Yang … wildfire … much trouble."

"Teacher – it's past eleven, I can't get hold of the Colonel at this time – he lives on the other side of town. I can't – I can't hear you very well."

He heard her groan before there was more fidgeting and the line grew slightly clearer again.

"... dedicated group, … stop at nothing … dead. You need … out of Central. Wei … dangerous … everything … forever."

The line dropped.

"Teacher?" Ed asked. There was nothing. The silence, the lack of crackle confirmed that she was gone.

Ed tried to call her back but with no success. He hung up the phone slowly and faced his brother in a slight daze, shaken by the strange, brief conversation.

"Brother?" Al asked quietly.

Ed shook his head. "I don't know – something to do with the debate I think … the Colonel."

The boys made their way back to the couch where Ed relayed every detail of the conversation he could remember. Al stayed silent throughout.

"She sounded really worried, Al." Ed said. "She wanted to warn the Colonel about something."

"You think we should go to him?"

"What the hell am I going to tell him? Until we can talk to that kelpie of a teacher properly we're in the dark." Ed answered. He puffed out some air as he thought. He felt exhausted but not to the extent that he wouldn't walk to Mustang's house if he thought it was the right thing to do. He sat up as a thought struck him.

"What am I thinking? Hey Al, what's the dial code for headquarters? They're bound to have his home number."

Al made a noncommittal noise. "They're not going to give it out to just anyone --"

Ed grinned cockily. "Just anyone, Al? I'm the Fullmetal Alchemist."

* * *

Hawkeye woke fully to the dying ring of the Colonel's telephone. In the muddled confusion of heat and darkness, limbs and blanket, she hadn't quite managed to rouse herself to answer it. She checked her watch: it was past eleven.

As the room quieted again in the wake of the shrill ringing, Hawkeye took stock of where exactly she was. Panic raced somewhere in her belly but more than that, right at the very top of her lungs, was a kind of giddy exhilaration. She felt the press of strong fingers in the slope of her waist and there, reaching out in front of her was the still right hand of her sleeping Colonel.

'Waking up with another's hand before you: this is what it is to not be lonely.' She thought.

She felt the press of his chest against her back as he breathed in, only for the contact to disappear again with a noisy, damp exhalation. The hairs on her neck stood on end and she had to shift her feet a little to expel some heated, surplus energy that sputtered in her middle.

Mustang's papery breaths were full of effort and every now and then she felt his chest hitch behind her as a sad sound caught on his vocal chords. He was dreaming.

Restricted by his left hand held fast to her waist, Hawkeye turned herself awkwardly to face him. She could see his dreaming now: creased brow and eyelids flitting with the delicate movement of sights seen only by him. His pinched face and distressed mouth made him appear somehow child-like but at the same time, the mark of age was evident. She had never really considered it before, had never really been this close to scrutinise him, but in the dull light from the street lamps outside she could clearly see the shadows and creases wrought by time and experience. Shallow lines marked the corners of his mouth and the grooves between his worried eyebrows showed his age as well as his dreaming torment.

Curiosity piqued by his vanity preceding the party, it was more restraint than she possessed not to chance a look for any grey. She freed an arm and smiling to herself, pushed back a sweat dampened fringe to study him more carefully. There, just to the right of his forehead, a couple of grey hairs were nestled amongst the jet black. Her smile vanished abruptly as she lowered her hand and where she expected to see the sleeping face of the Colonel, there was instead a pair of jet black eyes staring back at her.

"There's only a few." Mustang said quietly, his voice thick with slumber.

Hawkeye swallowed and tried to shift back a little; they were a hair's breadth apart and even though he had just awoken, the Colonel's eyes were cutting straight into her. The hand on her waist tightened only slightly but she found herself unable to put any more distance between them.

She licked her lips and for a horrible few seconds could not for the life of her think of anything to say. There was humour in the dark of his eyes. She answered his amusement with as much flippancy as she could. "I was curious."

Those hips, low and full of swagger shifted again and she felt the muscles in her back leap and jar.

"Is your curiosity quite satisfied?" He asked, his hand loosening a little.

They both knew the answer was 'no'. There was much to be satisfied between them.

She only smiled shyly, a hot wave of realisation washing over her, reminding her of how totally inappropriate her position was. For them to remain so professional throughout all those years only to let a long day and a few whiskeys get the better of them – it was beyond the realms of belief.

She had to drag Hughes' encouraging words out from their hiding place, her professionalism and sense of duty having chased them to some small corner of her mind reserved for vice and salaciousness. She ran the conversation through her head in some approximation of a mantra and hazarded a glance at Mustang to remind herself that, yes, of course this is where she wanted to be.

She felt the hand leave her waist as Mustang pressed his forefinger into the space between her brows.

"What's this?" He asked, speaking through a smile.

"Sir?" She asked in return, removing his finger from its place. Their hands remained together, her slender fingers curled around his.

"Little lines, big thoughts. Why the frown?"

She could have given him a hundred answers to that question but settled on the safety of the arbitrary.

"You missed a phone call before."

The alchemist sighed. "Hughes."

A brief silence fell on them again, the dull 'thunking' of a clock providing the sole threat to the quiet.

"What were you dreaming of just now?" She asked delicately after a time, remembering what Hughes had told her about, _warned_ her about the Colonel's mental state. The battle fatigue: that chronic sadness that wouldn't go away.

Mustang pouted in thought. "I don't -" he paused, landing on an answer before discarding it with a shrug, "-something far off. Nothing."

Hawkeye huffed at his non-answer. His memory had snagged on something and he chose not to share it with her, even in their intimacy.

"It didn't look like nothing." She challenged, trying to edge herself a little farther away from him on the chaise longue. The dent of his body on the couch only served to roll her closer to him though. She smiled reluctantly at the futility of it and was about to speak again when Mustang's face darkened suddenly. He drew in a sharp breath and released it with a long, pained and seemingly involuntary moan. As soon as he made the noise, a look of discomfort flickered across his features. He closed his eyes, stern concentration written onto his face.

"Sir?" She asked, turning her body more fully towards him and laying a light hand on his elbow. He groaned again in response to her gesture.

"Mm?" He squeezed out through tight lips.

"Are you okay?" Her grip on his elbow tightened and she leaned closer to him. A bead of sweat cut its way across his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt.

He adjusted himself so that he was pressed against the back of the couch and answered with a terse, "Fine."

Roused by the activity, a curious Black Hayate jumped up, his two front paws pushing against Hawkeye's back. The movement nudged her closer still.

That's when she felt it. Her knee brushed against a solid form under the blankets and she caught her breath with schoolgirl skittishness. Following the large woman's assault on the Colonel, no wonder he looked so uncomfortable and _pained_ in his blatant arousal_._

As much as Hawkeye didn't want to cause a scene, she found herself backing up and out of the blankets without even realising.

"Oh my-" she said stupidly.

Mustang's face was twisted somewhere between pain and vexation.

"Riza-" he said, exasperated. First Hughes and now this – he knew that winning Hawkeye's trust would be a challenge but all this 'friendly fire' was making it nigh on impossible.

"It's okay, Sir. I – um –" Hawkeye felt her face redden in her dance between saving his feelings and remaining cool and professional. Hayate yipped and bounced at her feet, excited by the sudden liveliness in the room.

"I should go. Yes." She said with commitment before marching off in the opposite direction from where she had left her belongings. She corrected herself with an about-turn.

Mustang practically fell off the couch in his race to stand up and stop her. "Hawkeye – Riza – please."

She wasn't listening to him but was rather engaged in busying herself in her hunt for her coat and satchel. He reached for her arm and instinct drove her to wrench herself free more dramatically than she intended.

The Colonel's face was a picture of horror and a large patch of affronted red marred the pale skin of his neck.

"Please Sir, this is highly inappropriate." She said, rolling her eyes at the quiver and volume of her own voice.

"Inappropriate?" He practically squealed out in his distress.

"Yes – Sir." Hawkeye answered as though he were a little slow; there was an inflection on his title that implied he wasn't quite 'getting it'.

The embarrassment of the situation and his continued disappointment powered Mustang's next response; the tone implied that all reason had fled from his mind in his panic.

"Inappropriate, Hawkeye, is climbing into bed with an unconscious man!" He shouted in indignation.

Hawkeye gasped and dropped her belongings back onto the couch before roughly crossing her arms. "I did not _climb_ in – I was dragged in … and it's not a bed. It's a couch."

"You're such a pedant." Mustang shot back, his voice registering disbelief at the u-turn in their evening and Hawkeye's apparently skewed priorities in the argument.

"Pedantic – the lazy man's word for accurate." She mumbled but with enough venom to make sure she was heard.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked with a cock of his head and narrowed eyes.

"Doing what, Sir?"

"Fighting this – hiding behind your epaulettes and the semantics of goddamn furniture."

Hawkeye drew in a deep breath before answering. "I'm not hiding behind anything – we have other priorities and this is not proper conduct. If anyone found out about us – it could be explosive. It could ruin everything. This is _your _goal."

Whether it was the events of that afternoon, the whiskey in his blood or the near lifetime of ignoring his feelings for the woman in front of him – Mustang finally snapped at her.

"Yes! Yes, it's my goal and if you're worried about someone catching us rolling around the blankets then you're deranged. We're plotting a coup Hawkeye, I think that's fairly fucking explosive!" He was practically screaming.

Hawkeye strained to keep her temper at bay. "You have responsibilities that are greater than yourself. There are boundaries –"

He growled and grabbed at his hair in frustration. The situation was slipping away from him. He was forever being called a manipulator, so why couldn't he manipulate this? He had to convince her to stay, had to prove to her that they could allow themselves the prize of having each other.

His temper wasn't to be quelled however and his desperation frothed out in a spiteful eddy of words intended to wound and immobilise, anything to keep her with him. Like breaking the wings of a bird for fear that it might fly away.

"Fine, yes, fine – boundaries. Well let's keep it that way, shall we? You keep within your boundaries and I'll keep within mine and we'll both just stay separated and miserable until one of us is -"

She railed at him, her voice cracking with the strain of a throat that never shouts. "How dare you hold your death over my head! How dare you coax me with _that_?"

Hayate stood between the two, lip curled slightly at the demon man who bore down on his master with shouts and frantic gestures. Their panting filled the room, both with bright eyes and heaving chests until Mustang seemed to lose all fight. His shoulders slumped and his weak legs managed to keep him upright just long enough to make it to the couch. He dropped onto it with his head in his hands.

Hawkeye watched him carefully with wide eyes as the violent beating of her heart drove solidly into her chest. She heard him draw a long, ragged breath as his fingers grabbed tightly at his hair. He raised his head but rather than look at her, his dark gaze was cast downwards towards the fireplace.

The clock chimed out the quarter hour as the couple stilled themselves into an eerie, fretted tableau.

His voice rolled out like faraway thunder. "I shouldn't have to persuade you."

Hawkeye's breath hitched and she placed a shaking hand on her chest to quiet her pulsing heart. "What?" Her question was almost a whisper.

Mustang's eyes remained averted as he spoke. "All these years I thought all it took would be the word – that just by saying it to you, I could make _us_ leap into existence but-" He stood. "I've embarrassed you. I'm sorry – I'll drive you home."

He walked past her, ignoring the quiet growl of Hayate as he went. When he reached the door he turned back, wondering why she hadn't followed. Hawkeye hadn't moved an inch but was staring hard at some spot between herself and the floor.

"Lieutenant-" Mustang prompted.

Her eyes, tired from the confrontation, rose slowly to meet his. She breathed noisily through her upset, pushing it down and away from her usually cool exterior.

"I don't want to go." She said with apology hanging heavy on the words.

Mustang coughed and approached her cautiously, his keys making muted chinking noises in his palm. The dog watched his approach with tightly wound anticipation.

"I don't want you to go either." He said.

Hawkeye had to look at the ceiling for a brief moment for fear that she might start crying. It had taken them less than a week to come to this. In the aftermath of their fighting, Mustang may have doubted himself, but his words had changed everything – had changed who they were absolutely. For the moment, whether the change was for good or bad was in her hands.

"What terrible leverage if someone found out..." she said. "So many people could exploit this."

He knew what she was doing, knew that she would scenario-test even the possibility of a relationship before she committed herself.

"We'll make sure no-one does find out. We're masters at keeping our own counsel." He said and hazarded further approach, careful not to spook either his Lieutenant or her protective dog. He knew only that he needed to be closer to her.

There was no sign of uncertainty at his approach but she grimaced as an ugly thought shot into her mind.

"What is it?" He asked.

She considered the wisdom of her next remark before deciding that it would be unwise to pull any punches. "Your reputation..."

Mustang sighed heavily, irked that of all people, Hawkeye would allude to his decadent renown. "Riza -" His gaze bore into her, honesty polishing his eyes to a gleaming, dancing black. "So much of me is reputation now..." The statement didn't need to be finished for Hawkeye to understand: The Hero of Ishbal, devil, brown noser, glory hound, womaniser...

She nodded and mumbled a quiet apology before a final thought grabbed her. "Our relationship will make things in the office … difficult." She said, looking at him with even determination that there could be no upset in the running of their unit.

Mustang grinned sheepishly. "Don't worry – you'll still wear the trousers."

Although she resisted, a reluctant flurry of laughter rang out from her. She recovered herself with a question but her tone was lighter. "Don't you have any reservations?"

He took her arm with a widening smile and she struggled to remember ever seeing him wear such an open grin. "Absolutely not. We're scientifically correct, diametrically opposed. Polar. We couldn't help ourselves even if we tried, guided as we are by the laws of physics." His thumb arced across her arm. "The pedant and the lazy man: fits like a glove."

Hawkeye groaned and boxed at his unharmed shoulder in embarrassment at their altercation.

In their mirth, neither party remembered catching hold of the other, but when the dust of their laughing settled, they found themselves locked in an embrace. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head as his fingers played with the loose hair at the nape of her neck.

"You'll stay?" He asked.

"Is Hayate allowed into your room?" She questioned in turn, her voice muffled by his shirt front.

"I suppose I can admit one more..."

"Just one?" She mocked.

He pulled back to look at her with feigned incredulity. "This isn't the reputation thing again, no?"

Hawkeye made a noise that negated his suggestion. "I thought you might like Elric's granny to join us some time is all. That Pinako woman."

Mustang fell into the embrace again with a sigh. "This gentleman prefers blondes." He chuckled and nuzzled her hair. "I've always been an Armstrong man myself."

"Olivier or Alex?" She asked, allowing herself to be rocked gently by him from foot to foot.

"Either. Both. Whatever I can get."

"I thought as much." She said flatly, giddiness rushing into her stomach as she took in the scent of him through his shirt.

More quiet laughter bubbled between them and Mustang's heart swelled at the thought that already they were revelling in the closeness, the unique exclusivity of their nascent partnership.

Slowly, delicately his hand moved across her neck until he was cupping her jaw tenderly. Hawkeye found herself looking up into expectant, skittish eyes. He wetted his lips.

"Please don't kill me." Mustang said with more seriousness than his joking allowed.

She only had a moment to feel her stomach drop in dizzying anticipation before her Colonel's lips found hers.

In the thousands of times she imagined that moment in the fiction of her own guilty fantasies, there had always been drama: pushing and tugging, plates being knocked off tables, the tearing of clothes – all the tropes of frustrated passion her mind could conjure. Never once had she thought that kissing Roy Mustang would feel like the most familiar and _comfortable_ act in the world. It was her homecoming.

As his free hand clutched at the small of her back in a postcard image of an ardent kiss, she supposed that she really had been misled by her Colonel's reputation for the risque. In a world where alchemy was the supreme force, she realised with fervid heat burning in her belly, that _truth_ was much better than fiction.

* * *

As midnight struck in Central, the dead streets were audience only to a small group of blow-ins from the last train. None of them spoke as they ghosted through the cold of night and the only sound that filled the misted streets was a muted chinking of metal from their canvas kitbags.

Riza Hawkeye wasn't the only one who couldn't wait to get her hands on Roy Mustang.


	12. Declivity

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. Yeo.**

Thanks to **Southpaw **and **artFULLYoutuvit** for beta - muchly appreciated.

Thanks also to the folk who have reviewed, faved and added to their alert list. Smashing!

**Massive **thanks to the fantastically talented **fudfoodle** who took the time to do an amazing illustration from this chapter. So please - check it out! It can be found here (without spaces):- . com/art/Moonlight-Sonata-161373781

Tally ho!

* * *

_"Because each seeks only his own good, in this city Justice is subject to Tyranny; nobody passes along this road without Fear."_

* * *

Ahu Kamaka lumbered out of the single bedroom to see her former pupil stretched out on the threadbare couch, a small smile playing on his lips. A shadow crossed her face as she spotted one hand was secreted under the dull pink of the thick cotton blanket.

"What the blazes are you smirking at, Mot?" She said, limping heavily under her weight as she moved towards the armchair.

Mot stretched, pulling both hands far behind his head and thus disproving Kamaka's lewd theory for the faraway smile on the man's face.

"I'm just thinking how Colonel Mustang will receive another little gift from me today. Perhaps I'll even try calling him again. Though last time..." He sat up, rubbing his mousy hair with unsure fingers. The Colonel was so alluringly cruel the last time he called it sent jolts through his belly.

Kamaka stared hard at the alchemist before her. His fawning and affections were despicable. How easily she could end his pathetic existence at the briefest of touches. The intention was almost always there but her logic and requirement deigned that Mot had a little longer to live. As soon as he took her ambition as far as he could, she would make a bloodless statue of him.

"A gift?" She asked, sounding as though she couldn't be less interested.

"To shake him to his foundations. I stole it from Christmas' place. Another token from his putrid mother." He smiled back at her.

"We need to weaken his resolve in order for your ultimate array to work." She stated, steepling her chubby fingers as her doughy elbows sunk farther into the rough fabric of the chair.

"I do." Mot answered, trying to keep his tone even despite his compulsion to scream and pull at his hair. For Kamaka to refer to 'we' doing anything to Mustang was enough to make his blood boil. "When I activated the array yesterday, I'm sure there was a moment of pivot, when the two souls balanced on the fulcrum of his body but..." His pale face pinched at the effort of putting words to the unspeakable. "...he held fast with the most ferocious.. dark determination. There's a desperation to survive in him and it isn't just instinct."

"You ramble, worm." Kamaka said, taking no pains to hide her utter disdain for the man.

"I'm talking about intent." He wagged a finger at the woman. "If I had to put money on it, I would warrant that he's thought about his own death in a very real way, perhaps even suicide-"

Kamaka flared. "Well the wretch wants to die then! Surely his resolve can't be that robust if he-"

"But it is! Which makes me think that he's been convinced otherwise, by himself or someone else." The blonde haired aide stabbed into Mot's mind before he wrenched it out with a visible grimace. "It was like a – a covenant written on every inch of him that said 'cling to this life.' There's something he needs to accomplish. He's looking past his death. Far, far past it."

Kamaka pondered this, her eyes hooded by purpled lids. "He and Wei Po-Yang both: two peas in a pod."

Mot smiled at her comment, albeit reluctantly. "Yes, indeed, but which pea is _native_?"

"Mot?" Kamaka sneered.

"When I spoke to my sources in Shaoshan they said that Mustang's mother miscarried just before he was born."

"Twins." Kamaka stated matter-of-factly.

"No." Mot drew out the single syllable in a long whine. "No, I don't think so."

A grunt and a glare was all Kamaka spared by way of further questioning.

"Kamaka-" Mot started, his smile widening. "Are you familiar with the habits of a cuckoo?"

The implications of Mot's assertion drove into Kamaka with force and her head began swimming with a hundred theories. For an alchemist to even entertain that Po-Yang could transport his soul through time was considered fringe alchemic theory, so surely Mot couldn't be talking about the transfer of mass. Moreover, Mot's radical supposition implied that Po-Yang transferred not just any mass but biological matter.

"You're losing your science in all your heated fervour, Mot." Kamaka said sourly with her mouth down-turned, utterly unprepared to believe something as monumental as his proposal.

"Perhaps, but it could be a considerable blow to our Colonel's pluck if he stumbled across the same theory. Let's remember, Roy Mustang was destined to die a blighted waif on the streets of Shaoshan until that whore-merchant, Christmas found him."

"What does his biography matter?"

"For him to exist by luck alone. Not to mention the chance that he's lived for thirty-odd years in a skin that isn't his." Mot leant forward, caught up by his own enthusiasm and forgetting for the moment his hatred for Kamaka. "He is known almost exclusively for two things: virtuoso alchemy and good looks, but neither of them may even be his! The real _Zai Sheng_ might have slid out of his mother prematurely in some Xingese hovel."

"You're disgusting... and where is your sympathy, Mot? I thought you loved this boy-divine?" Kamaka jeered.

"I do. I am won by his tragedy, the very paradox of him-" He began with eyes alight.

"You have to convince _him_ yet." Kamaka blurted out her realism, cutting him off.

Mot's pride did not sting for long however; he felt his success as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet.

"I know." He smiled, toying with a lock of hair. "I am quite aware of that."

* * *

"Yí hàn." A dark voice in the space behind her...

"Yí hàn." The strong fingers on her belly flexed and soft, damp hair drifted across her back.

Hawkeye cracked an eye open to the blue gloom of early morning.

"Mŭ, yí hàn." A breath rattled against her scapula.

"Roy." She whispered, the name sounding alien to her despite their coiled legs and crowding of flesh. Hayate raised his head from his place on the floor, ears alert.

"Yí hàn." He repeated with more urgency and she could feel the cold sweat from his chest press against her nakedness.

"Colonel." No response. "Roy-"

Mustang grumbled at her beckoning, the sound sending tremors down her spine. Turning herself to face him, she saw the same distressed and yearning visage as the night before. Bringing a hand to his face, she wiped away a faint wetness at his eye.

"Roy." She said again, soft but with a little more volume behind it. "Roy, wake up."

He groaned loudly and forced his face against her shoulder, nudging it hungrily before kissing her neck with the same vigour. She pushed him back to regard him in the aftermath of his dreaming. Jet black eyes shot mischief at her. Mustang was truly a soldier, his mind alert within milliseconds of waking.

"What a terrific way to greet the morning." He purred. "I should throw out my alarm clock."

She spoke into his hair. "Judging by your timekeeping lately, I thought you had."

There was a 'hmph' of amusement from him as he raised his head to settle his gaze on her, the light of the window framing white squares in his inky pupils.

"There you are." He said.

"Here I am." She ran her hand from the dip below his stomach to the fringe of his bandaged shoulder, toying with the slight fray of the gauze.

"You haven't run away like the girls in the ten-cenz operas." He said, his attempt at distraction quite obvious.

"I tried my best but the bolted door made it tricky." Hawkeye returned quickly, despite her preoccupation with checking his wound. "How does it feel?" She asked, studying the glisten and scarlet of his ruined flesh.

He bowed his head to look at his injured shoulder, giving himself an incongruous double-chin.

"Just fabulous." He said, an ugly snarl shaping his mouth as he scrutinised it further.

She raised her amber eyes to chide his flippancy with no room for interpretation. Evidently there was no chance she would be usurped as the 'trouser-wearer.'

Mustang huffed. "It's sore, Riza, and itchy as hell. It's just... what it is. Better this mess than risk any more activations of the array. Ed wouldn't let me live it down if I turned into an incoherent, fainting one-man show." He rubbed at her back when he saw a touch of guilt in her unenthusiastic smile. "You did great."

"Hm." Hawkeye looked unconvinced until she remembered why she had woken him in the first place. "What does 'yee-han' mean?" She asked, thumbing the adhesive tape of the bandage to refasten the gauze.

Mustang cast a frown of cynicism at her, baffled by the sudden change of topic. "Not a clue. Xingese?"

"I presume so. You kept saying it in your sleep. I thought you might remember." She said, disappointed. He had sounded so distraught.

"Sorry, apparently I have no control over my second language." He said before devilment played in his eyes once more. "Or this..."

She spoke as plainly as though she were questioning his choice of necktie. "Your hand on my ass, Sir?"

"My hand on your – yes." He gave it a tentative squeeze and shrunk back with a mock flinch, one cheeky eye closing in anticipation of a powerful, if playful, slap.

Hawkeye sighed and looked away shyly from him, having misread his amour as frustration. "I'm sorry that I couldn't... you know... last night."

"I'm not. I'm glad – imagine me waiting all these years to find out you were only after me for my body." His words broke off into a snigger as he approached the end of his ridiculous statement.

She shuffled towards him on the bed, giving lie to her next comment. "You're insufferable."

"Further proof of your tenacity."

"Or my masochism." She scoffed, pushing his fringe back.

"A masochist? Well then, I'm just the man for the job." He threw back his head and scooted further down the bed, placing a kiss in the misty recess of her throat as he went.

"Oh?" Hawkeye queried demurely, keen toes tensing.

"Tortuous-" His lips brushed her collarbone. "Selfish-" A nip at the flesh above her right breast.

His head disappeared under the duvet and his voice emanated from the depths of cotton in a muffled, yawning growl. "Not to mention I've got an iron-maiden under the bed..."

"Ha – you've got almost all the criteria..." Hawkeye taunted, threading her fingers through his hair as he continued his descent.

"Except for?" The muscles in her tummy jumped as his breath swept across it.

"Perhaps I misheard: '_man_ for the job?'"

"Oh-ho!" His head shot out of the covers and two powerful hands hoisted her by the hips to lie her on top of him. He steadied her with his right hand while his left covered his eye. "I could wear an eye-patch and call myself Bradley if you think that would help spur on your imagination."

"What about the facial hair?" She kissed the gentle indent above his lips, as her fingers trailed circles across the struts of his ribs.

"That's a low blow, Hawkeye." He admonished playfully before adding, "Patchy at best."

The sparring was cut short as the alarm clock jumped to life with a terrible ringing. Hayate, shocked by the sudden intrusion of shrieking chimes, leapt onto the bed and forced his wet nose between the couple.

With great difficulty, the Colonel nudged the dog aside just enough to win a kiss from his Lieutenant.

"Good morning, Miss Hawkeye."

Hawkeye, shook her head at his unexpected greeting, a few strands of hair coming loose with the movement. She slapped his cheeks with both hands and brushed a soft kiss against his forehead.

"Good morning, Mr Mustang."

* * *

Brigadier General Lockheed grabbed his phone with the telling irritation of a man who loved his breakfast and did not want to be disturbed.

"Lockheed." He grumbled into the receiver.

The lethargic voice of the switchboard operator crackled through the earpiece. "Fuhrer Bradley for you, Sir."

Lockheed gritted his teeth and assumed his most deferential demeanour.

"Good morning, Fuhrer Sir. To what do I owe-"

"Lockheed – your request for a State Alchemist to augment Operation Abacus-" The Fuhrer stated in his unmistakably rich tone.

"-was declined. I know Sir." Lockheed interrupted, checking the small clock on the telephone table, it had just gone five thirty.

"It's your lucky day, Brigadier General..." The Fuhrer's pleasant tone did nothing to disguise the volcanic menace that lurked just beneath the surface. "In light of recent consideration the council has assigned a State Alchemist to your command."

There wasn't a single senior officer who was unaware of the Fuhrer's sense of the ironic. Lockheed was no exception and it didn't take long for him to guess just who his State Alchemist would be.

"Colonel Mustang, Sir." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Colonel Mustang." The Fuhrer repeated, his smile quite evident. Integrate his unit as best you can before we meet this morning. He will be at your full disposal."

The Fuhrer's last comment made Lockheed smile despite the recent revelation. "Yes Sir."

His affirmation was lost as the phone clicked to silence. Lockheed replaced the receiver on its cradle and straightened his jacket, humming the national anthem to himself. It was the perfect opportunity: a veteran alchemist at his beck and call. He had waited his whole military career to have one of those glorious weapons placed into his hands and it turned out all he had to do was have a row with one. He couldn't wait to see the smug look wiped off Colonel Mustang's face. Not only would the Flame Alchemist be under his command, but his clique also. He would show them all what a sycophantic worm the man really was, despite all his sputtering and venom in the debate. Lockheed knew the brat was desperate enough to climb the ranks to fulfil even the most unreasonable orders.

Imagining the vast power the Flame Alchemist had in his possession, Lockheed shaped his calloused fingers into a gun and fired off a mock shot with a 'pffing' of his lips. It really was his lucky day.

* * *

Hawkeye slid her hand across the banister, making her way downstairs. As she rounded the corner onto the landing, she heard the sound of light notes being picked out on the piano. She crept down the remainder of the stairs and spotted her Colonel nestled comfortably at the black piano, head bowed and fingers picking out a chord here and single notes there. His head was obscured by the lifted collar of his shirt and she smiled at the shifting of his back muscles as he dallied.

Her advance was arrested by the sight of his desk. Not a single grain of wood was visible under countless pages and upturned books, some of which looked older than her grandfather. She turned her head from side to side as she read the various titles but her examination was interrupted by the Colonel's voice.

"Enjoy your shower?" He asked, still facing the piano.

"Yes." She answered distractedly. "What is this? Not alchemy..." She said quietly, her eyes drifting back to his desk. Everywhere she saw his frantic scrawl and tell-tale doodles from when his concentration must have lapsed.

He swung his legs over the piano stool and sat back against the huge instrument, his elbows striking discord as they leant on the keys.

"Research. About seven years worth." He said and pointed at the two shelves stood tall beside the desk, an indication that the material in front of her was but a meagre portion of his study.

Hawkeye read out a few of the titles: "_Utopia_; _Free Movement_; _Ethnocentric Cataclysm_; _The Republic_..." She pushed another few aside. "_The Principle of Fairness_; _Representative Democracy_; _A Study of Tyranny_..." Her eyes rose to meet his. "Sir these are-"

"Incendiary." He said with a hint of cockiness.

Hawkeye looked at him incredulously. "At the very least."

He bowed his head shyly and pushed a hand through his hair. "I know. I shouldn't leave them lying out, but none of the brass have stopped by for tea yet. Besides, it could be for academic interest." He grinned at her, fully aware of his weak refutation.

Hawkeye's answer was to read out another title. "_Off With His Head: After Tyranny _by Roy Jenkins."

"Madame Christmas told me I was named after Jenkins." Mustang remarked lightly.

"Given that it was _he_ who lost his head and not Fuhrer Socram, I hope that's where the parallel ends." She said solemnly.

Mustang sat back further and opened his legs to create a space on the stool in front of him. "Come here." He held out his hand.

Hawkeye hesitated for a moment before capitulating and making her way towards him suspiciously. She sat and leant back into his embrace as his hands clasped in front of her stomach. He looked closely at her profile from his position at her shoulder, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"You're right to worry. I'll move them to a safer place tonight." His deep voice held no lie.

Hawkeye nodded and played with his right hand as she relaxed in the last few minutes before they had to leave.

"I can't believe what these managed to do at your party. I never knew..." She tugged at his fingers to indicate his musicianship. "Never heard anything like it."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, his jaw working it as he spoke. "If only that were all they did." He answered her curious look with a loud snap of his fingers.

"You don't mean that." She said, defensiveness biting at her words. It was her father's alchemy after all.

"I know." He sucked in a deep breath and mocked playing a tune on her upper thigh, the pressure leaving neat little imprints on the blue fabric of her uniform. "When I was a child I wanted to be a great concert pianist." He said quietly, the recollection showing plainly in his eyes. "I practised for hours and hours, almost every night..."

"So why alchemy?" Hawkeye asked through an intake of breath as his fingers skirted higher on her leg.

Mustang stopped in his mime, hand paused in deliberation. "It just ... hm." He had never really asked himself that before and found the memories difficult to decant into words. "It always felt as though a hand was guiding me... I don't know, I can't remember when the two paths switched places. Alchemy flooded me though, it was like finding my own shadow."

"And when did you discover digression?" Hawkeye mocked and winced when Mustang's teeth nipped at her neck in reprimand. "Sorry." She laughed.

They stayed in their companionable silence until Mustang slapped a hand down on her knee.

"Time to go?" He asked, hoping she would answer in the negative as his hands found purchase on her hips.

"How much time for a song?" Hawkeye asked, twisting her neck to look at him with bright eyes.

"Five minutes?" Mustang offered curiously.

"Then we have five minutes."

The man quirked an eyebrow at her, then without warning, kicked one foot under her legs to lift them as he spun them both back to face the piano. She yelped with the motion and steadied herself noisily on the ivory keys.

"You'll never make it." Mustang quipped at the cacophony of her momentary clumsiness.

With his arms stretched either side of her, he adjusted himself until he was better able to play. His hands found the keys.

"Something gentle!" Hawkeye blurted out with uncharacteristic volume, remembering how devastating the piece from the party had been.

His response was a tightening of his legs around her waist and the first chiming chords. His body pushed against her back as he picked out the notes of the piece. Even in its first moments, the sound was so pure and light and sublime that Hawkeye could scarcely believe it was the same instrument that shook the whole party only days before.

"Moonlight." He said quietly as his fingers brushed the keys before her. "The composer was twenty-eight and fell in love with a poem of that name."

He closed his eyes as the theme built to a near crescendo before dropping away with a few scattered notes. Then he began in earnest, his fingers pouring over the keys as the rolling melody brought the clearest of sounds to life in the air around them. Hawkeye shuddered against him as his leg slid past hers to reach for the pedals. Then almost as suddenly as the deluge began, it quieted to a tender misting of sound.

Mustang spoke again, his hushed voice hardly distinguishable from the music.

"...almost sad beneath their fanciful disguises..." He quoted the moonstruck poet as the theme carried on delicately. "...They do not seem to believe in their happiness..."

The notes were becoming ever quieter as the piece drew to a close.

"...sad and beautiful..." he said as he ran his right hand over the final notes and let them drift off into the brightness of the new day.

Hawkeye let her head drop back onto his shoulder and they sat in their silence for a length, each revelling in their new found togetherness.

"We should go." Hawkeye said after a time and waited for him to stand.

Mustang clambered off the stool and pressed his lips to her temple, holding them there for a beat before drawing himself to full height.

"You didn't want breakfast did you?" He asked, fetching their coats from the wrack. He held hers out for her and she obliged him with a smile.

"No. Thank you."

"Good because all I could offer was out of date corned beef and a stale loaf of bread." He admitted while he searched for his keys.

"Hayate may not be so forgiving. I'm surprised he hasn't eaten your couch at this point." She said, reaching down to scratch the dog behind his ear. She glanced nervously at the door. "What if someone spots us?"

Mustang reached over his desk and shifted his works in search of something, providing Hawkeye the opportunity to regard his compact physique. She winked down at her dog and recovered her poise just in time as he marched towards her with a stack of old account forms. He dropped them into her hands and spoke to her in the even coolness expected from a superior officer.

"Thank you, Lieutenant for attending to these so early. It was good of you to give up your morning before my meeting with the Fuhrer." He showed absolutely no sign of jesting, his mouth set in a thin line.

"You're too good at this." She said, turning her head to look at the outdated documents.

"Aren't we both?" On saying that, his stoic veneer shattered and he delivered playful kiss to her cheek.

Hawkeye decided to fall into character herself and walked past him with a roll of her eyes, Hayate trotting proudly at her heel. "Whatever you say, Sir."

As Mustang made his way out, he felt some vague compulsion to look back over his shoulder and make sure everything was in place. Seeing nothing awry, he closed the door and followed his Lieutenant to the car making no attempt to tear his eyes from the boundless captivation of her.

* * *

Second Lieutenant Breda plodded into the office with a hand held over his eyes to protect them from the oblique brightness of the winter sun. Tossing his coat over the wrack with disinterest, he continued his effortful trudge towards his desk.

Excluding Mustang, Hawkeye and the Elrics, the remaining members of the unit were as present as they could be following the previous day's events. A low hum from the lights provided some antidote to the weary silence.

Havoc glanced up from his game of solitaire, faithful cigarette in place. "What's eating you, Braidykins?" He asked, his concentration returning to his lonely game.

Breda flopped down opposite Havoc and spoke to him through a mess of cheek and lips as he leant his face on his right hand.

"I barely slept a wink last night." He muttered before howling in a yawn.

Fuery raised a bleary head from his desk like a wounded puppy who heard his name called. "Me neither. I couldn't get the Colonel out of my head."

Havoc swapped his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. "What's new Fuery?" The Lieutenant teased then pouted at the young man when he saw how crestfallen he was. "Just kidding, Fuery."

Fuery ignored his senior and instead looked towards his more sympathetic comrade, Falman who was currently engaged in shining his boots. "What about you?"

The grey-haired officer looked up and pondered the young Sergeant's question in great depth before committing an answer. "I try not to dwell on things. I slept mostly soundly." He answered and returned to the task at hand.

There was a collective rolling of eyes.

Breda looked back at Havoc and stopped the man mid play by placing a thick hand on top of the cards and mussing them. He leant in conspiratorially.

"You think she stayed?" He asked, eyes narrowed to the side to check for any eavesdropping.

"I have fifty cenz in my pocket that says she did." Havoc mumbled without looking up from his ruined card game.

Breda considered this before leaning back in his chair, defeated. "No point if we're both backing the same horse..."

Havoc only scoffed before both men were distracted by Fuery's quiet voice.

"I wonder how the Colonel's meeting with the Fuhrer is going..."

Havoc lifted Breda's hand and dropped it to the side before gathering up his cards, irked by the useless conjecture of Fuery's question. Regardless of how the meeting was proceeding, he was confident they would all know soon enough. Either the Colonel would thunder into the office and get cosy with his own scowling or he would waltz in full of wry smiles and less than covert comments about how well he thought the debate went.

"Can't be any worse than his meeting with that fat woman..." The Lieutenant jested and achieved a reluctant snort of amusement from Breda.

The banter was suspended by the _clunk_ of the brass handle of the office door as a wrought looking Hawkeye stepped into the room, arms full of bound documents. She snapped off a 'good morning' as she circled the office, giving a booklet to each member of the unit. That done, she sat at her desk and wiped a hand across her brow.

"You okay, Hawkeye?" Havoc asked, his first genuine remark of the day.

Hawkeye cast hollow eyes at him, her face a picture of disbelief. "I'll let the Colonel explain. You could start by getting familiar with those thirty-two pages though."

Breda let his eyes linger on his comrade for a moment before he looked at the first page. "Operation Abacus?"

Havoc whistled. "The ARG plot? I thought we had intelligence that put a stop to that."

Hawkeye shook her head. "The Fuhrer decided to disregard the information volunteered by the ARG's Deputy Chief-of-Staff after his surrender. He wants to make an example of them and considers the group a canker that must be cut out. No preemptive measures have been taken."

Fuery was leafing through the document in barely concealed horror. He was privy to the communications from Hughes that recommended the preventative arrests of senior ARG members. The Lieutenant Colonel vouched for the integrity of the detained Deputy Chief-of-Staff, advising that the man considered the ARG unfit for their ambitious insurrection. The man had surrendered in a last minute bid to save the lives of his comrades, even if it meant their detention. The whole affair could have been ended days earlier with a few raids on the ringleaders' houses.

"It doesn't make sense." The Sergeant whispered as he saw his name heading up the communications section of the document.

"It doesn't have to, Fuery, this is Bradley we're talking about." Breda said, grimacing when he saw 'Flame Alchemist' dotted throughout the pages and 'Colonel Mustang' written nowhere.

Hawkeye turned her eyes towards Fuery, her manner sympathetic but hidden somewhat by her practicality. "Yours isn't the place to question orders, Sergeant, no matter how unreasonable they may seem."

With characteristic timing, the door swung open to reveal Ed and the metal leviathan of his brother.

"I need to speak with the Colonel – I've got a message for him from Dublith." The young alchemist announced as he sauntered in, his brother following close behind. "I suppose he's catching some 'downtime' in his office." Fullmetal's show of bravado convinced no one, the whole unit having witnessed just how shaken the teenager had been following the Colonel's collapse. His petulance did little else than thicken the already tense mood.

"Morning everyone." Al said, trying his best to sound cheery despite the atmosphere.

The tight unit mumbled a half-hearted response before Hawkeye pushed her chair back and delivered a dossier to Ed with a touch to his shoulder.

"The Colonel is currently engaged with the Fuhrer, Edward." She gestured to _Operation Abacus_. "He's trying his best to get you dropped from the mission as we speak. He should be with us shortly." She said sadly and turned to the suit of armour. "Alphonse, for obvious reasons I'm afraid you can't accompany us."

Both boys looked at each other in utter confusion before they started leafing through the thin booklet held between them.

"The ARG?" Alphonse asked, heavy fingers busied in keeping Ed from continuing his speed-read through the document.

"The Antifacist Resistance Group." Hawkeye advised.

"Don't be surprised if you haven't heard of them, Boss. They're a bunch of skinny idealists – virtually nobodies. They make their uniforms from the scraps of at least three other armies." Havoc chimed in but was quieted by an indignant glare from his colleagues.

"They're somebody enough to warrant _this, _Havoc." Breda argued, slapping his copy of the dossier on the desk.

Ed's eyes narrowed at Hawkeye. "If they're such nobodies why is the Colonel trying to drop me off the mission? Doesn't he trust me?"

"He-" Hawkeye started but was interrupted by Havoc as the scruffy haired Lieutenant leant across the desk at Ed.

"Because Lockheed has a hard-on for alchemists." He said and sat back with arms folded.

Breda groaned, embarrassed by the inappropriateness of Havoc's comment in front of the boys while Fuery looked horrified.

"That clown's in charge of this circus?" Ed asked, his high pitch and volume chipping the words as they left him.

"Havoc!" Hawkeye rounded on her colleague. "We will use an appropriate tone when discussing matters pertaining to the security of the-"

"Shit, Hawkeye, I'm just saying." The Second Lieutenant rejoined. Evidently, the lack of sleep had worn on everyone.

"Well don't." The bass tone struck the racket of the room like a gunshot.

All eyes rose to see their Colonel standing as straight as a pillar in the cavity of the doorway, his face devoid of any humour. Dark eyes swept across them, landing on each member of the team long enough to make them squirm.

The unit took a moment to gather themselves before they stood as one and saluted smartly.

"At ease." Mustang clipped, closing the door as silently as he had opened it and stalking his way to the front of the room.

Concerned eyes flitted and signalled behind his back. Only Hawkeye stood with shoulders squared, every ounce of her attention on him.

Mustang wasted no time in laying out the consequences of his meeting with the Fuhrer.

Operation Abacus was a mission engineered to respond to the ARG's plans to commandeer the Central Sewage Works, effectively holding a gun to one of the city's most vital services. If they blew up the plant, as intelligence indicated they would if their terms were not met, the whole city would grind to a halt. The mass disruption would stir unrest and lose the State hundreds of thousands of cenz. In any other municipal building, the mission would be a straightforward 'in and out' affair. The people of Central could cope without electricity and a post office, they could not cope without sanitation. The sewers would be backed up in hours and that's when disease would start to take its fetid hold.

Fuhrer Bradley insisted that for the insurgents to threaten such a base attack was to mock the pride of Amestris and its military. He wanted the small group wiped off the face of the planet.

Following his spirited show at the debate, Colonel Mustang was to support Brigadier General Lockheed on Operation Abacus as a show of good will and internal cohesion.

Mustang explained to his staff that Operation Abacus was the best outcome they could have hoped for . Despite the harsh appearance of the Fuhrer's decision, the man had actually enjoyed the Colonel's contribution to the debate and appreciated the positive response it seemed to have garnered from otherwise antimilitary sections of the media and public.

Lockheed's performance was met with less grace. His transfer to the south was undergoing its final checks and he had been issued fourteen days' notice before his move was due to take place. The Fuhrer, of course, explained that he was merely expanding the ageing man's portfolio. They were placing an embargo on the post as there were no viable candidates for his replacement. That particular clause had stung Mustang more than he cared to admit.

As he wrapped up the outline of the mission ahead of them, he saw a question flash across Breda's face. Respecting the man's intuition, he allowed him the interruption.

"Yes Breda?" He asked curtly.

The Second Lieutenant shouldn't have been surprised by the Colonel having noticed, but he was.

"What's our ramp up to this, Colonel?" The red head asked.

Mustang fought to keep all strain from his face as he answered. "Five hours."

He was met with quiet but unhappy acceptance and forced his voice through their solemnity and shuffling of feet. "Our troop will move out two hours before nightfall." He caught an unsure turn of Sergeant Fuery's mouth and held up a hand to galvanise their attention. "This is not the waiting room of the Central Infirmary. You're soldiers, so lift your chins when you're being spoken to."

"But Sir, our time is so-" Fuery moused with eyes averted.

Mustang cut him off with surgical precision. "The Brigadier General has been planning this for weeks and we can only augment his strategy. The time limit is not our enemy." His implication was not lost on the more senior members of his team: if time was not the enemy, then other parties were, most likely Lockheed himself.

Havoc was restlessly fiddling with his cigarette and the Colonel realised with a sigh that any attempt to wrap up matters tidily was futile. "Lieutenant?"

Havoc jumped a little and had to gather his thoughts before speaking.

"We haven't got all day, Lieutenant..." Mustang urged him with dubious calm.

"Well..." The man dropped his cigarette to the desktop. "Two squadrons, a Brigadier General and a State Alchemist – things are a little shit-serious for a group of petty insurgents, aren't they Sir?"

There was the briefest moment of shadow when the Colonel looked primed for losing his temper but his composure crushed it until it was nothing more than a glint in his eyes. He turned his attention to the suit of armour.

"Alphonse, how do we get biogas?" He asked in a tone that could have him mistaken for a primary school teacher.

"Um – the fermentation of biodegradable materials, sir?" The boy answered politely.

"Correct. Like what?" Mustang's eyes flitted to Havoc to check if the Lieutenant was paying attention.

"Sewage sir." Alphonse answered again with natural speed of thought.

The Colonel turned to Ed.

"Fullmetal, give me the primary components of fermented biogas?"

The diminutive alchemist looked befuddled with the Colonel's drift before answering with uncertainty. "Uh – carbon dioxide and methane?"

"Methane. Very good, Ed." Mustang congratulated sourly and returned his stern gaze to Havoc. "This is so shit-serious, Lieutenant, because if there is even as little as five per cent methane in the atmosphere then _any _ignition source can trigger an explosion. Now do me a favour and _get the picture_ before I embarrass you by having to explain what happens when I snap my fingers."

Hawkeye cast him a weighted stare: 'reign it in' she appealed silently. He rolled his eyes and leant back against a desk with arms folded. Knowing that his Lieutenants would be fine, he focussed almost entirely on the more junior members of his team and the quiet mannered Falman.

"Look," Mustang said sharply before relaxing against the desk with one foot crossed in front of the other, aware that he needed to look in control despite his reservations about Lockheed's leadership. "This isn't ideal by any means. We're working under a commander with... questionable aptitude and we've been charged with the difficult task of crushing a disorganised, nervous and trigger-happy outfit."

Mustang was distracted from his impromptu speech by the keen stare of Edward Elric. He supposed the boy had never before seen him inhabit the role of _commander_ per se. The Colonel hoped the young alchemist would be as receptive as the others. The importance of keeping Ed away from the influence of the Brigadier General could not be overstated. He collected himself with a seemingly nonchalant glance at his pocket watch and continued.

"Latest intel tells us that the ARG moved in this morning and took at least seven staff members hostage. They've dug themselves into the monitor room where they have almost total control of the plant's facilities. Despite the group's combative naivety, in fact _because_ of it, this situation is a tinderbox. It's our job to neutralise the risk, all the while remembering that the ARG have guns to the heads of seven average workers who deserve to see the end of this day."

He folded his arms and allowed himself a distant smile at Ed then Fuery before continuing with seriousness.

"I've worked with you all for some time now and I know that in the course of this evening you will act with the same professionalism and poise I've grown to expect from you. We are going in to secure that plant and liberate those workers. I want you to hold on to one thought: none of those workers dressed for death today. As far as I'm concerned, neither did any of you. I want every single one of you back in your beds tonight, even if I have to tuck you in myself.

"Do _not_ make yourself available to Lockheed. If you have to lie to him, _lie_ – throw your ammo in the trash if it'll stop you from taking a shot under his duress. Be as absent as you possibly can be."

The Colonel changed masks again, slipping from concerned commander into a stone faced vision of self-possession.

"Second Lieutenant Breda." He barked.

"Yes Sir!" The red haired Lieutenant answered just as sharply.

"You will cover us remotely from behind both squads. Make sure you have your back against a wall. I don't put a lot of credence in Lockheed's rear guard."

"Yes Sir!" Breda repeated.

"Falman, I want you to stay close to Lieutenant Kells – he's Lockheed's right hand man. Alert me of any behaviour from the Brigadier General that presents as high risk or of _any_ mention of Fullmetal."

"Sir!" Falman answered.

Ed looked ready to query the Colonel's reference to him but thought better of it judging by how seriously the rest of the command were behaving. It would be better to corner Mustang in private anyway, he always showed off less without an audience and might actually listen to Izumi Curtis' warning.

"Fuery, I want clean access to back-up if things 'go South'. Also, keep in touch with Lieutenant Colonel Hughes – I want regular updates on civilian activity in the area, especially if people start amassing with any sign of protest. Have the military police push them back. Clear?"

Fuery stood and received his orders with a quiet pride. "Sir."

"Fullmetal, you'll be running for me." Mustang said, his hackles rising in anticipation of an argument.

"What?" Ed asked, half laughing. The Colonel had to be kidding. A runner?

"No arguments, Major. I need to be in touch with my people and you're my fastest man." He said brusquely. "I don't want to hear a clap from you unless it's by my request. Havoc – you're covering Fullmetal."

The blonde Lieutenant confirmed his orders and shot Ed a look that left no illusions that he would be keeping the boy in check.

"Hawkeye, you're with me. The situation with myself and Lockheed may become contentious. If it looks like my alchemy is becoming a liability we need to be creative in making sure I'm put out of commission – even if it means you shooting my hands off."

"Sir!" The Lieutenant answered with a sharp connection of her booted heels.

The Colonel smiled solemnly before he pushed himself away from the desk with a grunt. "Well, what are you all waiting for? Get busy – full briefing with Lockheed's men in three hours." He moved off towards his office.

"Hey Colonel!" Ed shouted over the din of activity amongst Mustang's unit.

The Colonel half turned towards the prodigal alchemist and regarded him with a hooded eye. "Fullmetal."

Ed bristled for a moment but continued nonetheless. "I need to speak to you – I have an important message from my old teacher-"

"Ed, it's going to have to wait until after Abacus." The Colonel interrupted and took another step towards his office.

"Don't brush me off Colonel I'm trying to help you out here! It's urgent-"

"Deal with this, Hawkeye." Mustang ordered as he disappeared into his room and closed the door behind him.

Ed was left flabbergasted with both hands out in an appeal for Mustang's attention – the man was impossible. He turned to Hawkeye who smiled kindly at him with more than a little apology on her leader's behalf.

"It's been a very long week for him, Edward." She said and gestured that he take a seat with her away from the others. "Can you speak with me?"

Ed looked around him awkwardly before settling into his seat with shoulders set in a secretive hunch. Al came and joined him at his side. He reasoned that it actually worked out for the best that he told Hawkeye instead of Mustang. The likelihood was that had he told the Colonel directly, the idiot would have just brushed it under the carpet and not given the information a second thought until it was _much_ too late. At least with the Lieutenant he knew that she would take his message on board and act upon it.

Ed leant forward with Al mimicking his surreptitious stance. "Lieutenant -" he hesitated, all of a sudden totally nervous about the warning he bore. Hawkeye urged him with an understanding nod. "My teacher has reason to believe a serious attempt will be made on the Colonel's life."

Ed couldn't be sure of what emotion crossed Hawkeye's face at the delivery of his teacher's message but whatever it was, he knew he never wanted to feel that way about Al. She didn't lose her poise or wring her hands, but somewhere in the depths of her amber eyes Ed saw the haunting presage of her own personal catastrophe.

* * *

Colonel Mustang sat down at his desk and growled loudly at the messy stack of letters bundled together on its surface.

Leafing through the mail to pick out only the most urgent items, his hand stopped across an envelope marked with familiar hand writing. His eyes shot to the door in reflex of making sure no one was present to see his unbridled shock. Already his left hand started to shake. He wiped his mouth, his eyes pinning the small cream rectangle with the massive weight of his awful expectations.

A shaking thumb broke the seal with an unsteady swipe across the top of the envelope. His fingers felt the wrinkled gloss of a worn photograph.

Pulling it out of the envelope, his stomach plummeted as the image revealed itself.

There, marked in blacks and greys against the yellowed card of the old print was a simple photograph of an impossibly slight Xingese girl. Cradled in the nook of one thin arm, a tiny baby with a shock of black hair stared up at the girl with eyes full of delight as one chubby hand reached for her chin. The girl was laughing but the thrust of her collar bone against her skin told another story.

Mustang felt sick. There was no mistaking the black glint of the girl's eyes nor the delicate architecture of her face; it had to be his mother.

He dropped the photo to the desktop and pushed the heels of his hands to his eyes to crush away the emotion threatening to charge its way into them. Opening them again, he glanced down and saw a message marked on the back of the print in the same spidery scrawl as the last note.

'_Who are you really_?' It read.

A lump formed in his throat, thick and full of gall at the sheer surprise of the picture. His ears rang and the familiar tang of metal seeped into his gaping mouth.

A light knock at the door broke him from the whirring of his thoughts. Mustang had the picture in his breast pocket in an instant.

"Yes?" He called, trying to ignore the tremble in his voice. Jittery hands wiped sweat from his face and he recovered his stance just as the door opened to reveal an equally distressed looking Hawkeye.

"Sir?" She asked and was invited in with a wave. Closing the door lightly, she approached the Colonel's desk, her eyes not failing to see the envelope marked with familiar writing. "I'm sorry, Sir. We need to talk. Edward's teacher has been trying to get a message of vital importance to you."

She paused as she noticed the odd demeanour of the man with a raising of her eyebrows. He looked wrecked and it was difficult to believe they would be moving out on a mission in a matter of hours. There was a furtiveness to the way his eyes danced across the envelope on the desk between them. Something else was up, that much was clear but she had to take things one step at a time.

"Izumi Curtis is confident that your life is in serious jeopardy following Tuesday's broadcast. The line was bad but her concern for your safety was serious enough to warrant your removal from Central for the time being. Whoever it is, they sound like they mean business."

Mustang leant back in his chair, pushing his shaking left hand into his pocket. He flashed his Lieutenant a dangerous smile, the inconceivable unfairness of the week's happenings darting through his thoughts. "...And this morning had started off so well..."

* * *

A/N: I should say, for Roy's short speech I leant heavily on Col Tim Collins (look 'im up: very inspiring guy). **Also** the Xingese Roy speaks has been _very_ loosely based on Chinese and so please forgive any discrepancies in translation. Any sentiment expressed by him in Xingese will be translated via another character in the course of the story. A thousand thanks to **Starcatcher1858** for her great advice. ...And no prizes for guessing which piano piece he plays... :D yeo!


	13. The Serpent of Xing

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal. Sob.**

Many thanks to **Southpaw **for her beta work - you're the best. Thanks also to all of you who've reviewed. Check out **Fudfoodle** ( on DA) - she is breath-taking in her talent...

**Re 'yi han**'** - **I have based my Xingese very loosely on Chinese and the 'reveal' will resolve the true Xingese meaning of Roy's words in the course of this chapter. My many and muchly thanks to the lovely **Starcatcher1858 **for her advice on the language. :)

* * *

"Why am I speaking to you? I asked for the Colonel." The harsh voice of Izumi Curtis cut across the telephone line.

Hawkeye steadied herself with a deep breath. Ed had her well briefed on the caustic nip of his former teacher. If the Lieutenant wanted to achieve anything, she would have to avoid confrontation while still maintaining her own role as protector. It was a fine line to walk.

"As Colonel Mustang's personal aide, I am responsible for all matters pertaining to his security." She returned flatly.

Curtis sighed, the condescension clear in her tone. "My business is alchemy, soldier blue."

"_My_ business is the Colonel's safety. I am the soundest conduit for your information, alchemy or not." Hawkeye said with her trademark stoicism. She had to remain as business-like as possible and would not be lured into argument by the other woman. She was well accustomed to dealing with highly strung alchemists.

There was a long pause as Curtis considered Hawkeye's response with all the leisure of a child rolling a hard boiled sweet between her teeth. "You're that woman aren't you? The blonde, skinny thing. The one Edward's frightened of."

"I couldn't comment." Hawkeye was growing frustrated. They were mobilising in less than half an hour and judging by Ed's scant details, Curtis had a lot to share. Hawkeye was lucky she found a window to speak with the woman at all. "My time is limited, Ms Curtis-"

"They call you the Colonel's keeper, you know." Curtis teased. "The woman with her hand on his leash." A beat. "Is he house trained?"

It was Curtis' last comment that gave her game away. It was too much, _too_ petulant. Hawkeye realised immediately that she was being tested. Whatever it was the alchemist had to say, she couldn't say it to someone reactionary and soft. It had to be someone who knew the Colonel, knots and all, and wouldn't be put off or spooked by whatever she had to share.

"We move out in less than thirty minutes, Ms Curtis. Edward told me you had information that will help me keep my commander safe. If that isn't the case then I'm afraid I'll have to terminate this call."

Silence was followed by a distant scratching and Hawkeye thought for a moment that perhaps the choleric alchemist had just walked away from the phone. She was proven wrong as Curtis sucked in a loud breath that crackled down the line.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye, right?"

"Yes ma'am."

"From now on, you should assume a gun is pointed at the Colonel at all times."

Hawkeye's heart skipped a beat. Always at the Colonel's back, it was an assumption the Lieutenant had made long ago in the darkness of her own private thoughts but to hear someone else say it – the crack of a bullet, the softness of flesh, a brittle skull – black armbands, Fuery turned pallbearer, a rallying of shots in the military graveyard. How easily his death could be designed.

She had to keep her head. "Wh-"

"Don't get me wrong, Ms Hawkeye, there was a time when I would have been going after Mustang myself. I should preface all of this by saying that _he_ is the biggest liability here-" she paused, considering the wisdom of her next remark, "-but Edward tells me he's a good man and not without his own purpose."

"Edward's a smart boy." Hawkeye confirmed quietly though she worried just how much of the Colonel's _purpose_ Ed had divulged.

"There's only so much I need to tell you now. That peacock of an alchemist should be able to figure the rest out, with a little help. I don't want any of this to transpire either. We are aligned in that much at least."

Hawkeye's face turned sour at the disregard the woman was showing for Mustang. Despite his faults and swagger, he did a remarkable job at looking after her two proteges. More than she had done herself it seemed.

"Whatever it takes for me to do my job." She said, revealing nothing of her distaste.

"Listen carefully, Hawkeye because there's more than Mustang's hide resting on this. The woman who charged him at the debate, she _had_ to be an alchemist."

"She was." Hawkeye affirmed.

"Hm." Curtis purred through a sour smile. "What she saw in Mustang – it's practically fable, ludicrous even. The potency of legend cannot be underestimated, however and alchemy is no different. Sure as that woman was excited by what she spotted, there are plenty who are very nervous now. The radio broadcast reached every corner of Amestris.

"Whether it's true or not, there are those who believe Colonel Mustang is host to a great evil and they won't be taking any chances – so you certainly can't." The alchemist coughed a few times as her voice grew thick. Ed had mentioned something about her being unwell. "There is a part of every alchemist that is tempted by the shadows of natural order. Immortality. Cheating death. For ourselves … or for others. My own two boys are no different … as I'm sure you are aware."

"I am." Hawkeye answered soberly.

"One such alchemist has arguably made a success of his dark endeavours. For most, his success does not exceed the limits of mythology but for a scarce few, perhaps even myself – he is considered the master of an impossible alchemy: the transference of matter, the shaping of time and a thief of lives. His supporters call him, 'The Harvester of Truth' or 'Our Timeless Keeper', and believe him to be a solid force for good. A father figure if you like. They're as dangerous to your Colonel as their opponents are. Mustang's brand new adversaries know him as, 'The Enemy of Death' and the 'Lawless One.' My own chapter from when I was involved as a youth called this ancient alchemist, 'The Serpent of Xing.' Make no mistake, these names are not exaggeration. If our ancient alchemist really does live on in your Colonel, then we all have reason for sensationalism."

Hawkeye swapped the phone from one ear to the other as her palm grew damp at Curtis' revelations. Despite all the drama of her language, alchemists were at heart, unceremonious beings and were not ruled by dramatics but by science, truth and reason. If Izumi Curtis was worried, then Hawkeye had every reason to be as well.

"Wei Po-Yang?" Curtis asked. "Do you remember that name from after the debate?"

"I-" Hawkeye was distracted as a frantic looking Fuery appeared at the door to the Colonel's office. She muttered an '_excuse me_' and covered the receiver.

"Sergeant?" She snapped a little too brusquely.

Fuery lingered about the doorway, deterred by the tense atmosphere emanating from the small office. "Lockheed's marshalling the troops."

Hawkeye rolled her eyes. "We have twenty minutes, Sergeant. The General is just readying the squads."

Fuery swapped his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. "No, Lieutenant." He swallowed hard. "The dismembered body of a hostage was thrown from a top floor window ten minutes ago. The Colonel says something must have been leaked, that they were sending us a message that they mean business. They know we're coming. Lockheed wants to move out immediately. Everyone's ready."

Hawkeye stared hard at Fuery, unaware of just how much she was making him squirm.

"Lieutenant-" The young man urged, his eyes flitting nervously back towards the office entrance as if Lockheed was about to appear there at any second.

Hawkeye raised the phone warily to her ear again, holding one hand up to quiet Fuery.

"I'm sorry, Ms Curtis. I have to go." Hawkeye felt sick. There was a vagueness to Curtis' tone that drove fear into her breast. 'The Serpent of Xing,' - there was an ancient familiarity to the title that let it settle on her consciousness all too easily.

"You can't go! You have to hear this-" The alchemist virtually screamed down the line.

Hawkeye kept her even tone as she replied. "I'm afraid I can't delay-"

"This mission of yours has been discussed on your military radio channels I presume?" Curits asked abruptly.

"Of course." Hawkeye, glowered meaningfully at a fretting Fuery. '_I'm coming,'_ she mouthed.

"Then you can bet a cross-hair will be trained on your Colonel while you're there."

Hawkeye stood. "Ms Curtis-"

"Hawkeye – _should_ your Colonel make it back in one piece, tell him to call me. He can't possibly fathom what's happening, what's inside him. This is bigger than the life of one person."

Hawkeye couldn't help but smile at the irony of Curtis' remark, for _there_ was a philosophy the Colonel knew only too well. No one person held the leash of Roy Mustang, least of all himself. He belonged to Amestris.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you, I'm sorry we had to cut this short." Hawkeye cast a sidelong glance at Fuery and widened her smile to let him know she understood it wasn't his fault.

She was about to say 'goodbye' when a thought occurred to her.

"Oh, Ms Curtis –" Hawkeye sputtered and was met with a sultry '_hmm?_' by way of an invitation to continue. "What does 'yee han' mean?"

Curtis laughed. "Yí hàn? Ha! Is that what he says when the world isn't listening?"

Hawkeye cleared her throat, conscious that the Colonel would be waiting for her in the lot with his foot tapping. "I have to go-"

"Hawkeye-" Curtis said softly, she had no small amount of sympathy for the Lieutenant charged with the safety of Colonel Mustang. "It means, 'I'm sorry.'"

Something moved in the Lieutenant's gut as the memory of the Colonel's voice swarmed back to her. A voice treacle-dark and thick with sadness. A voice she never heard in the office, only in those private moments of slumber. He was a changed man when the lights were off and the door was closed.

"Thank you." She said simply and ended the call with a quiet 'goodbye'.

When she reached the lot with Fuery tailing behind her quick pace, she found everyone but Mustang packed away inside the jeeps. He stood next to the open door of the last vehicle, watching her with curious eyes. Lockheed stuck his head out of his window and yelled back at the Colonel.

"Get your people in line, Flame. We've wasted enough time." His red face disappeared back inside the jeep.

Hawkeye approached Mustang as Fuery entered the vehicle through the opened back doors.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Sir." She said calmly and slipped past him to sit next to Havoc in the front.

"Havoc managed to devour only two cigarettes in the time you were away." He smiled at her slyly. "So you can't have been that long."

"Hey!" The man in question shouted from his place behind the wheel as he started up the engine. "No chit-chat."

"Did you speak to her?" Mustang asked softly, totally ignoring Havoc and the other vehicles that had started rolling out of the lot.

"Briefly." Hawkeye answered.

"Risk?"

"Severe to critical." She said, holding his dark gaze. She was tempted to say, 'sensational' given the information she had just received. The revelations had left her punch drunk and reeling with grim possibility.

He rubbed at his chin and glanced off at the departing jeeps, the ebbing light of day picking out their windows in yellows and oranges. "We'll talk about it when we can."

Hawkeye nodded and found her eyes drawn to Mustang's belt holster slung unevenly across his hips.

"Your holster's always too low." She scolded and reached down to fix it with a tug, her back obscuring the action from Havoc.

"It makes me feel more cavalier." Mustang returned before rushing forward into the jeep, his lips missing hers by a breath as she clambered back to accommodate him in the seat beside her.

"_More_ cavalier. Perfect." Hawkeye mumbled, settling herself in her place in the middle, and suppressing the urge to smile as Mustang's solid shoulder pushed against hers.

* * *

The troop had been there for almost an hour and movement was tortuously slow. As soon as they arrived, Mustang had Ed transmute two thick walls from the shabby concrete to offer cover and allow the squads to get as close as possible to the crisis. Each wall was marked with slits narrow enough to slip the barrel of a rifle into and the majority of Lockheed's men took positions along the two long struts.

The only violent activity of the afternoon was a rally of shots as the troop moved in but no one was hit. The ARG had placed themselves in quite a fix having taken over the control room; the office was flanked by two decorative wings that effectively narrowed their vision like blinkers on a horse. Their sight was limited almost exclusively to the two protective walls, the only breach in the barrier being a two metre gap to allow the force to storm the building quickly if it was required.

Between the walls and the front of the building lay the crumpled body of one of the workers. It took Mustang a while to work out what looked so unearthly about the corpse and when it finally hit, the obviousness of it nearly made him laugh. The man's throat had been slit so violently, and the fall was so severe that his head rested almost parallel and upside down to his neck. His arms were truncated to two bloody stumps. The darkness of his uniform revealed him as a security guard, and it was likely he was the first hostage taken. They probably tortured him for access to the rest of the building then completed their gruesome dismemberment after he was dead, just to make a point. Mustang had to hand it to the small group – the severity of the action took him by surprise. Petty idealists indeed.

It hadn't been a complete loss. Despite Lockheed's terrible negotiation skills, they had managed to secure the release of four of the remaining six hostages. They walked the terrifying gauntlet from the front doors of the main building to the concrete walls before collapsing into a thrashing fit of sobs and curses. Between the hysteria, Falman managed to gather that the two remaining men were senior managers. They did not, an engineer advised, have a working knowledge of the plants various mechanisms.

Lockheed had remained unobtrusive throughout their time there, only making himself known when he requested further information on activity inside the building. Mustang knew it was only a matter of time before the General's impatience would get the better of him though. He hoped the inertia would break soon; he didn't have a lot of faith in Lockheed's ability to keep his cool under pressure. To add further strain to an already tense situation, they were losing daylight quickly. The chill of night falling was already starting to settle on the troops and though Mustang had every confidence in his unit, he didn't like the sullen, red faces of Lockheed's men at all. They restlessly shifted their feet and rolled their eyes at each other when their commander strode past them. Mustang's unit may have been a little loose while in head quarters, but they were tight when they needed to be.

He was most impressed with Fullmetal. The young alchemist had followed every order to the letter. He never strayed too far from Havoc and gave Lockheed a berth so wide, he was virtually invisible to the General. The one time the General requested the walls to be made higher, Ed refused saying that he needed to 'recharge.' Mustang had never seen the alchemist in need of a 'recharge' in his life and had to keep from smiling so as to not give away the ruse. He made a mental note to thank the kid separately.

A rifleman coughed and there was a shift in the air, something the Colonel was well used to from Ishbal. He could liken it to the sudden feeling that he had forgotten his keys, a carnal knowledge that something was amiss. He remembered asking Hughes about it, but his friend just knuckled his arm and told him he was imagining things. He never mentioned it again.

A light breeze swept the dust about his feet. He was certain that something had changed. Whether the change was with the ARG or Lockheed was another question.

"Did you feel that?" He asked quietly, knowing that Hawkeye was a bare inch behind him.

"Sir?" She asked in turn, and he could practically feel her muscles readying themselves for action at his simple question. He knew her right hand would be balanced just above her holster.

He cocked his head over his shoulder to regard her with a knowing eye. "Never mi-"

"Colonel, Sir." Fuery called as he approached. "Signal's down."

Mustang raised his eyebrows in a '_keep it down_' expression at the young soldier as another, stronger sensation of changing air blew across his palette. He could _taste_ it, a fretting in the atmosphere around them.

"Any idea why?" He asked the Sergeant.

"Interference – the equipment's jamming. There's a lot going on in the air around here with the sewage works and all, Sir."

Mustang looked at Fuery for a long moment, weighing up their options. Hughes had already reported that the media were sly to their operation and had banked themselves outside the plant waiting for some action. They really couldn't afford to be without that kind of intelligence.

"Sergeant-" Mustang began but was cut off as Lockheed pushed past him to tower over Fuery.

"What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?" Lockheed asked.

"It's under control, Sir." Mustang said, delicately positioning himself between both men under the guise of inspecting the radio strapped to Fuery's back.

"Do we have a radio signal, Col – Flame?" Lockheed patronised. His reticence to use Mustang's rank was seriously beginning to grate on him. Only the likes of Kimbley had ever really used his state title. It reduced him to nothing more than artillery. If they could, they would have knocked him out and just pointed his fingers.

"No Sir." Mustang bit back.

"Then it isn't under control." Lockheed took a step closer to Fuery and bowed down to meet him eye to eye. "Do you know what initiative is, Sergeant?" He asked lightly.

"Yes Sir." Fuery replied, unsure eyes jumping to his Colonel's expressionless face.

"You might want to try using some then. There have got to be fifteen silos here, each of them thirty feet high. Now get up one and get me a signal."

"Sir-" Mustang and Fuery protested at once, the younger man backing down at the harsh glare of his commander. Mustang continued only to be cut off again.

"I strongly advise against-"

"Get in line Flame Alchemist." Lockheed snapped. "Your advice is not required-" The Brigadier General smiled. "But I _am_ putting you into play." He turned to Fuery. "Signal. Now."

Fuery looked to Mustang, their eyes locking. The Sergeant imagined that regardless of where they all ended up in the future, his instinct would always tell him to seek approval from the man who stood before him. If the Colonel gave the go ahead, then you could be certain you were following the best route for everyone. Mustang broke their contact with a nod, then seconds later looked back to follow Fuery as he made his way off.

"We can't all be king of the castle, Mustang." Lockheed said roughly. "He's doing his job and now you're going to do yours."

Mustang had to quell a shudder as his hackles twitched and jumped under his uniform. He recognised the look Lockheed gave him. It was the same way the men in Christmas' place looked at the girls in all their finery: full of foul lust. He thought on how his comrades in Ishbal regarded him with unbridled fear and understood that this yearning, cloying desire for power was the other side of that coin. He wanted to spit.

Hawkeye strode purposefully to his side and levelled her deep brown eyes at the Brigadier General. She was as tightly wound as her superior was.

"We need to take matters into our own hands, Flame Alchemist." Lockheed said, dull blue eyes drifting to Hawkeye's still features, then falling slightly lower. "They've had long enough. We will offer them our terms and if they're not met, we'll take them out. This plant needs to be functioning again in the morning."

Mustang spoke cooly, chin high and eyes focussing on the air between them. "I guarantee you Sir, if I take them out there's every chance this plant won't be around in the morning."

Lockheed only smiled mysteriously and about-turned, signalling that they should follow.

He didn't need to look at his Lieutenant to tell her that this could be the moment they discussed. When he would have to feign incompetence, fall away from his command and risk insubordination. If the ARG had lost control of the plant's facilities in the absence of an engineer, methane would start to build until the whole area was a powder keg. Even bullets posed a risk of causing a massive chain reaction. Mustang wondered if _this_ was the stirring he had felt in his gut before.

"Kells!" Lockheed beckoned his Lieutenant who approached obediently with Falman trailing close behind. He snatched a loudspeaker from the man and ordered a volley of shots to be fired upwards to garner the insurgents' attention.

Quiet settled over the men as the loudspeaker crackled to life. "The game is up. You have dealt almost all of your cards. Give up now or face the righteous force of the Amestris State Military."

Mustang licked his lips. Lockheed was dragging the whole situation into an unnecessary field of 'us and them.' Every senior officer, including the Colonel, had to undergo negotiation training: talk of card games and threats of 'righteous force' were _not_ on the training syllabus. What happened to 'encourage stability', 'validate feelings' and 'establish credibility'? Lockheed was the least credible creature Mustang had ever encountered. _In_credible, in fact, in his total lack of perception and poise.

Movement upward to his right caught the Colonel's eye and he took some solace in the weak 'thumbs up' from Fuery atop one of the massive, hulking silos. He must have made contact with Hughes again. At least they had that. Mustang signalled Fuery's position to Ed, making it clear he wanted contact maintained. Despite Ed's lack of experience operating with the unit, he had picked up on their signals impressively and moved off without question.

"The Flame Alchemist is readied at our disposal and you feckless beggars will regret the day you challenged our State if you do not heed our demands. You have five minutes to surrender yourselves before we end this with all the Fuhrer's might." Lockheed continued his announcement and had the audacity to look Mustang straight in the eye for his closing remark. "Five minutes."

Time slowed to a swamp of checked watches and unsure whispers. The atmosphere wasn't just shifting now but positively swimming with angst and a colder flurry of something without name. Mustang felt his hair stand on end and the muscles in his fingers started pulling sharply, biting at some unknown energy in the air. With less than a minute to go, Lockheed cast a smug look at him.

'Look all you like,' Mustang thought. He would not be making a single attack on the plant. It was totally out of the question. For all he knew, the shifting in the air he felt was nothing more sophisticated than the build up of odourless methane. If that was so, then his attacks could spell the end of everyone within the compound.

Suddenly, the doors of the plant's main building burst open. The shuttering rasp of fifty rifles cocking filled the air. Hawkeye brought herself level with Mustang to peer through the small gap in the centre of the wall.

Two tired and tear streaked men stood in the cavity of the doorway. Their eyes were sprung to rabbit white and their hands trembled in the air. A dark stain on the younger man's crotch betrayed the extent of his fear.

"You see, Mustang. The old ways are always the best. Brute force." He sneered. "We have our hostages."

Something was wrong. The men were getting their freedom. As terrifying as their experience was, there should have been some sense of elation as they started their stumbling procession towards the safety of the walls. The Colonel didn't bother to face his Lieutenant, he knew she would be thinking the same thing.

"Eyes peeled, Hawkeye. There's a lie in this..." He said quietly, but not enough to avoid Lockheed's attention with a sharp turn of his head.

The men continued at their unsteady pace, the oblique light of the setting sun picking out the guns trained on their backs from the ragged hollows of the smashed windows. That same light, dull and illusory as it was, showed the flaw to Hawkeye as though a spotlight had been thrown onto it.

"Sir." She whispered. A slight tilting of his head told her he was listening. "The furthest most man. His right shoulder."

Mustang's face fell into a confused scowl but he followed the direction nonetheless. It took him a few moments longer, but the situation presented itself to him with the same terrible unveiling as it had done to his Lieutenant. When the marked man moved forward on his left foot, his jacket pulled back just so and revealed a thick black, solid strap on his right shoulder. That was all a trained mind needed to join the dots. They were carrying explosives. The guns aimed at them would fire as soon as they were within reach of the walls.

"General Lockheed, Sir." Mustang said, the unease in his heart not managing to break through his stoic demeanour. The Brigadier General did not respond, his cloudy eyes were fixed on the false success of the approaching men. "Sir!" Mustang said with more force. Lockheed faced him.

"What?" He spat.

Mustang hesitated. There was no good way to play this. If it was his unit alone, they would have had the two unwilling bombers neutralised within seconds. Lockheed was another matter. Either way, the scenario would rupture. The Colonel moved closer to his commander and whispered the new information in the man's ear. It didn't take long for things to disintegrate.

Lockheed stumbled back from Mustang and scrutinised each hostage for himself. On spotting the hint of the explosives, he groped for Lieutenant Kells and relayed the information in a less than confidential tone. The men nearest to them jumped and the news travelled along the line like the spark on a fuse. The two gruesome pawns were no more than forty metres away from the walls now and the animal in them sensed the change in the uniformed men awaiting them. The younger gent to the front stumbled and broke into an exhausted, heavy limbed run.

"General!" Mustang barked. "_Act_, General!"

Lockheed was frozen where he stood. Kells grabbed at his arm and requested an immediate order. Falman reached for Kells to try to restore some calm amongst the men but was rewarded with a merciless backhand to the jaw from the frantic Lieutenant.

Mustang only took a moment to steel himself. With closed eyes he imagined all the pieces laid out before him. Fullmetal was with Fuery so there was no chance of using him to erect another wall between the hostages and the ARG. Lockheed's panicked men were seconds away from opening fire and the hostages were within mere strides of reaching them. The alchemised walls could probably withstand an explosion from that proximity. Any closer and the charge from the explosives would tear half their troop apart. Mustang estimated at least thirty men would catch the brunt of the explosion. There were no other feasible options. The time to act had arrived. The hostages would have to die.

"Lieutenant." He said solidly. "Two bullets. One in each man's forehead. Drop them."

"Sir!" The sharp shooter affirmed and dropped to one knee to better aim through the narrow slit in the false wall.

The ARG's own hawk's eye must have spotted the development and an angry fusillade of machine gun fire rang out across the lot and battered against the walls. The Lieutenant was forced to recoil until the salvo ceased. Red tracer bullets streamed overhead as the dissident marksmen tried to find their target through the gaps in the robust concrete. Hawkeye ducked and rose as she tried to gain her opportunity to shoot again.

In the panic of the fire fight, both hostages had started running. One man was brought low by a bullet to the calf and in his prone and writhing state, another scorching shot tore through the pulp and porcelain bone of his head. The other abductee sobbed and stumbled towards them, his pleas for life rising up amidst the chaos. He was a manager. He processed the city's _shit_ for God's sake. This was not how he was supposed to die.

The super-charged air brought sweat to the Colonel's brow, as the adrenalin coursed through him with supreme and terrifying efficacy. His hands were trembling with keen anticipation. He would be ready.

Hawkeye yelped as a red hot bullet creased her neck but she recovered immediately and fired back, totally composed. It barely occurred to him that this woman had lain naked and supple in his bed only hours before. His only thought was, 'Can she take the next shot?'

Mustang reached for his own revolver but found himself restrained as Lockheed seized him by his lapels. The man's eyes were wild and the Colonel had to wonder when he had last seen active duty. He was falling to bits.

"Do something you damned alchemist! Isn't this what you people do? Wipe them out! Stop this!" Lockheed's hot spit whipped against Mustang's face as the man ranted.

"I can't." He said plainly. A hard shove from Lockheed almost brought them both to the ground. "I can't." He repeated. "The air is too noxious. I could kill us all."

"You fucking brat!" Lockheed snatched Mustang's gun from his holster and for a deafening few heartbeats, he actually thought he would be shot by the raving General.

But no. The wavering hand swept past the Colonel and aimed out into the chaos of the darkening lot.

It only took one bullet to set the world ablaze.


	14. Mammy's Hero

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.

So after broken laptops and volcanic ash, chapter 14 finally made it! Huge thanks as always to **Southpaw** for her beta work. Yeo!

Thanks also to everyone who's along for the ride and for all of you who have taken the time to write a review: muchly apreciated :)

Just a note I thought may be interesting when reading. Listened (almost on a loop) to 3 tracks while writing this chapter, all of which are amazing and worth checking out if you have a few moments. 1) Kate Bush/Army Dreamers 2) Tinariwen/Kel Tamashek 3) Katie Melua/The Flood

Thanks chaps!

* * *

"Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage,

But wise through time, and narrative with age,

In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice -

A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice."

_Alexander Pope_

_

* * *

_

Hughes didn't need the radio link to hear the explosion; it sounded out across the city and rattled the windows in their frames. He rushed to the window, radio receiver in hand, and looked towards the industrial district. His face blanched at the sight.

Black smoke billowed up against the purple of the quickening dusk, its centre pulsing orange and yellow from the inferno roiling up within it. The violent hissing and crackling issuing from the radio carried the sound of the aftermath of the explosion. Hughes could barely hear Fuery's frantic voice.

"Fuery!" He shouted into the radio, eyes still locked on the tower of smoke.

Fuery's voice was almost totally obscured amidst the chaos. "Lieu … strapped … shock wave … hear … "

Hughes couldn't make sense of it – didn't have time to.

A second explosion obliterated any chance of further communication.

What he saw next dropped the receiver from his hand and had his heart racing.

* * *

The world erupted into a blistering whirl of charging heat, soldier's rasping curses and the booming echo of the blast. Weaker sections of the wall were punched inwards launching tiny stone missiles, needle sharp, into the necks, hands and eyes of the cowering troops. Mustang heard the dull, wet sound of stone on flesh as a larger piece of the construct came loose and fell on one of Lockheed's men. The scream that tore out of the soldier cut through the blunt rolling of the explosion like a knife.

The Colonel took in every detail around him: the multicoloured smoke of noxious fumes already starting to ignite; the tell-tale pull and hiss of air drawn inevitably towards the inferno; the eerie, almost muted rumbling: that awful precursor of further chaos to come. He knew he only had mere moments; that the fire, hungry and unreasonable as it was, would start to eat up the air around it, creating a vacuum and superheating itself. It was only a matter of time then before the whole lot went up in white hot devastation. Feeling his left glove to be a little loose, he pulled it tighter. Hawkeye caught the motion and stepped in front of him, her amber eyes lancing through the grime and soot on her face. He could barely hear her when she spoke, his ears were ringing painfully with ear trauma and the rushing of adrenalin.

"You can't, Sir." She said resolutely, an order almost.

He didn't have a response for her. His time was too important and he found his body moving off towards the gap in the wall without any thought or intent from himself. A catch on his arm didn't stop him as he whipped it back and continued marching against the pulsing heat of the ever-growing fire. He could hear her calls in the background, somewhere distant and far behind, back where she would be safe.

"Sir!" She screamed, more desperate this time, incredulous almost.

He paused at the corner of the wall and looked back over his shoulder at her, surprised to find her only inches behind him.

"I need you to cover me, Lieutenant. Find your target through the wall. Do not follow me." He could scarcely hear his own voice. He looked to his left across the divide in the walls and saw Lockheed scrambling to find his senses in the dust. The sight of the man, prone and uncontrolled, was the only incentive the Colonel needed to force him to do the necessary. He didn't look at Hawkeye again as he rounded the corner.

Hawkeye watched as Mustang slipped around the divide and her left foot inched forward unbidden. The need to follow him was unbearable, orders or not. She steeled herself with a grim nod of her head and followed him to the edge of the wall. Dropping to one knee, she levelled her gun in the direction of the windows while every inch of her resisted the urge to watch his back. It was ludicrous, pointing a gun at a few insurgents while her Colonel threw down his gauntlet against an inferno.

She fired off a rally of shots but the last of them was lost in the second, savage blast.

The explosion made nonsense of time, the events that followed seeming at once sped up and also impossibly slow. The darkening sky blanched white in the wake of the explosion before bleeding back to an amber cloud of fire. Blue flashes sparked angrily across the air above them as the power lines to the plant were taken out, popping and fizzing like firecrackers. The magnitude of the blast was large enough on its own but the shock wave that followed a split second later knocked half the soldiers to the ground. Hawkeye scrambled to her feet. 'He's out there. He's out there. He's out _there_,' ran through her mind in a hectic, desperate pulse. Somewhere in her middle, a strong arm held her. Another groped at her shoulder to battle for restraint. She was locked in a protective embrace and unable to go to him. 'He's out there!' She couldn't even be sure if the words made it to her lips.

"Look, Hawkeye!" The voice was saying, _screaming_ in her ear. "Look!"

She threw her hand back, tried to push the body away from her but it held fast. Her fingers pushed at the soft, slick flesh of a cheek and ear.

"Fuck-" the voice said, obscured by her clawing hand. "Hawkeye, keep your head, open your eyes and look for fuck sake!"

She did.

It was awful and beautiful. A massive, monstrous tower of fire and smoke pushed upwards with force for what must have been close to a mile before it spread outward in a blanket of yellows, reds and toxic greens above them. The noise issuing from the raging pillar was a sonorous chorus of gushing air and further, smaller explosions.

Against the broiling flames and billowing, up-lit smoke stood a silhouette as clean and precise as a cardboard cut-out. Two channels of ravenous fire stretched either side of the figure, an uncanny force twisting the element in the most unnatural sight she had ever seen. The flames, that had once pushed against the weakening walls were being dragged back towards the centre of the lot. Pebbles and dust were following the retreating columns, bouncing along the ground in their wake. A high pitched whistling added to the deafening chaos around them as fresh gases were pulled into the Colonel's alchemy. The air around them was so alive and fractious that Hawkeye found herself panting uncontrollably, unable to catch a full breath. She grasped the thick hand on her shoulder.

"Breda." She wheezed and felt him nod behind her.

Occasionally the Colonel's grasp on the inferno would weaken and the flames would rush forwards to continue on their natural outward path but he found purchase again and hauled them back towards the open lot.

Breda held on to Hawkeye as much for himself as for her. Despite the years he had known the Colonel. Despite the trust, the camaraderie, the joking and shared goals. Despite the man's fallibility: his drinking, moaning, sleeping, doubting, whining, lazing – despite any logic he could throw at what he saw before him; some carnal part deep within Breda was terrified by what he saw.

A demon dressed in military blue.

He knew now why the Ishballans called him what they did. _Fajarah_: evil doer.

* * *

Ed leant forward against the hot wind as the second explosion tore across the lot and swept over the top of the silo he and Fuery were perched on. His eyes shone in glassy awe at first the blast, then the almost instantaneous column of fire that thrust upwards into the sky. Even from far below, he could feel the heat emanating from the cloak of flame and smoke above him. 'So long as that column's there,' he thought, 'the Colonel's still on his feet.'

He looked down at the walls and saw soldiers lying belly down in the aftermath of the two huge explosions. Smoke obscured any chance of identifying them and he wondered if any of them were aware of how close they had come to losing their lives. There was a pompous bastard down there amongst that chaos who saved them all from being utterly obliterated. Ed heard the stories and saw Mustang in action a few times, but the scale of this alchemy was nothing short of inconceivable. The title, 'Flame Alchemist' was virtually understatement now.

Obviously the raw materials the man currently had at his disposal were less than ordinary, but the power it took to control an explosion at its very _conception_ was momentous. The thought struck Ed that all the Colonel's joking and light-hearted threats about roasting his staff were nothing but diversions. The most effective way to devalue something was to make fun of it. He was building a persona of safety, of humanity; building it out of the ashes of his former demonic identity. It was suddenly very clear to Ed that the one person most terrified of his power, was himself.

"Ed! Fuery! You alive up there?" Havoc called from the metal stairwell bolted to the side of the silo.

"Yeah!" Ed called back distractedly. His heart leapt into his throat for a second as the tower of fire sputtered and yawned open as the Colonel lost control for a moment.

"Fuery – you still got Hughes on the line?" The Lieutenant called out to the young Sergeant.

Ed could imagine Hughes with the pads of his fingers pressed to his window, watching that column of fire and hoping to God that it did not fail.

"Hey Sergeant!" Havoc called again and Ed could hear the dull thunking of his boots on the spiral stairs.

Ed gasped as the column faltered again. A groan escaped from him as the cloud of fire and smoke rolled forward towards the wall like a tidal wave. It wasn't stopping.

"Havoc!" Ed called, the distress in his voice clear against the buzzing of disorder.

"Ed!" Havoc called. "Fuck! Ed!" The _clang clang clang_ of the Lieutenant's heavy treads against the metal walkway grew louder.

Ed sighed in relief as the wave of fire and smoke was yanked back once more in a greater column still. There was a finality to the effort, the flames being rolled upwards in a huge, churning mushroom cloud of heat and blackened mayhem. A false clap of thunder punctuated the inferno and air whooshed past Ed's face on its journey to the monstrous tower. Mustang was finishing it. He could see the Colonel's irrational impatience in the sudden push towards closure. Ed cackled out a relieved, crazed laugh as Havoc grabbed tightly at his arm.

"Ed!" He shouted. His voice was uncharacteristically sharp.

Ed faced him, a smile halving his features. Havoc looked less ecstatic. His cold, blue eyes struck Ed like a slap.

"Ed-" his face was sombre now, questioning. "Where's Fuery?'

* * *

Lockheed fought his way to his hands and knees, eyes locking onto the Colonel's two Lieutenants crouched together across the divide from him. Their eyes were fixed on the Flame Alchemist standing firmly against the hell of flame and smoke. In their gaze he saw a cocktail of fear, loyalty, love – every sentiment and expression was begging for the life of their commander.

Lockheed grimaced – the wretched little brat wasn't their commander. Not here. This was Lockheed's mission. This was his troop. His glory. He was the one who fired the bullet that set off the explosion and surely ended the lives of the insurgents. He was merely using the weapons at his disposal. The Flame Alchemist was part of his arsenal and if he wouldn't perform by command then at least he was performing under the duress of crisis. Lockheed stood shakily. He had to regain control. Had to make it clear to his men that he was in charge.

He took an unsure step between the divide in the walls. The blonde Lieutenant's gaze snapped up to him instantly. She tore herself free of the red head's grasp and approached him with wary eyes, matted strands of hair glued to her face. She was quite beautiful, Lockheed decided, in spite of the grease and soot.

"Stand down, Lieutenant. This is under control." He said firmly, holding out one soft hand to caution her.

She glared back.

Lockheed grunted and took another step towards the Colonel. She sprang this time and was stopped only by the firm hand of the Second Lieutenant.

"No." The man said firmly. Finally. Then something quieter. "_Let him find out the hard way_."

Mustang's clique was too damn exclusive, the Brigadier General mused as he continued his march towards the Flame Alchemist, the raw heat scouring his face. His lips parched and his chest heaved as he walked the arid avenue between both channels of flame. He scowled at the vision of the young Colonel in front of him. With hands poised and coat tails snapping in the scorching wind he looked every part,_ 'The Hero of Ishbal.' _Lockheed decided he hated him.

_His_ mission. _His_ glory.

"Flame!" He called through the din. There was no response. He marched ever closer, only a metre or so away now.

"General!" He heard the woman's voice from far behind him. She could fret all she wanted; he would take the reins again, regain some order.

"Flame!" He shouted again. "Mustang! Flame!" With only a few inches between them he knew now that he was being ignored. "Answer your General, Flame Alchemist!"

Mustang's back tensed. He lifted his right foot heavily and scraped it across the earth a few times before planting it firmly in front of him. It could have been a steadying motion or equine deviance. Lockheed was inclined to interpret it as the latter.

"Colonel Mustang!" Lockheed screamed.

The Colonel swayed slightly before he dug his left heel back into the loose grit.

Lockheed's resolve evaporated. "Mustang!" He shouted again and shoved hard on the Colonel's back.

The Colonel stumbled and regained his footing, still refusing to turn and face his superior. The column of fire billowed angrily before it continued burning, eating up noxious fumes and precious oxygen.

"You listen to me, Mustang! You!" Lockheed was raging now. He had never seen such flagrant defiance. "Mustang! Colonel!"

The Flame Alchemist thought he was beyond reproach? Well he had gone too far. Lockheed would teach him who was boss.

The Brigardier General took a brave step forward, grabbed at the Colonel's sweat-damp hair and gave it a violent tug downwards. Mustang's head snapped back and his knees gave out for a moment to accommodate the abrupt assault. Both his hands flew back for balance. The fire surged either side of them and the column faltered dangerously, looking almost as though it were about to topple over.

The shift in the alchemist's countenance was startling. Mustang swung his left hand back, grabbing roughly at Lockheed's wrist. His lithe body twisted and before Lockheed knew it, the wet fingers of his right hand slammed painfully into the loose flesh and cartilage of the General's throat. He flexed them before digging them in again, his hold unyielding. The flames roared at the Colonel's back and threw his face into fiendish relief. Two hard black eyes stared up at the older man from beneath a clinging fringe of raven hair: feral, unforgiving, unthinking – murderous eyes. Dark and unseeing. Cold and ruthless. His teeth were bared and tiny bubbles of spit popped in the spaces between them. He growled and pushed back forcefully on the General's throat.

The older man coughed and staggered onto his backside. He shielded his eyes as the surrounding flames licked at him. The Colonel stood over him with chest heaving, framed by the fiery tapestry of his own design. Lockheed felt his bowels shift ever so as a cold dread drove into his belly.

Surely the Colonel wouldn't kill him? There were witnesses. He would never commit murder in front of Lockheed's own men. _'He'll kill them,'_ he thought. _'They won't even be able to identify the bodies.' _The alchemists had done a lot worse in Ishbal. Lockheed had heard all the gruesome stories. His heart hammered as he thought of Crimson and Iron Blood. Mustang was young when he worked with them – impressionable. That kind of thing was acceptable in Ishbal – that's the life the young alchemist had known. There were no rules so long as there were no witnesses. He would be burnt to a crisp – an unfortunate accident, they would say.

"Colonel Must-"

Mustang spoke without emotion. "Don't do that again."

He turned back slowly to his hellish workings, not even casting the Brigadier General a second look.

Hawkeye looked on horrified, Breda's hand still fixed firmly around her arm. They had wrestled a little when Lockheed pushed on the Colonel's back. She springing, scrabbling to get away and he holding fast, his voice hoarse but strong.

It was when the Colonel grabbed at the Brigadier General's throat that the two subordinates quieted themselves into disbelieving stillness. Hawkeye clasped at Breda's hand and he held tightly to hers. They both saw the look in his wild eyes, the hatred visible even from a distance. Never before had their Colonel shown even a fraction of the outrage his face wore then. Was that the face he wore in the Ishballan campaign? Was that the last face his enemies saw? Breda pitied them dreadfully.

The pair sank to their haunches with relief as they watched the Brigadier General fall back clumsily. The Colonel returned to his task, seemingly with more fervour then. The sucking of the air increased around them as the column expanded into a thicker block of fire before the whole swirling mass started lifting noisily from the ground and mushrooming upwards to join the eerie, orange blanket that stretched above them in the navy sky.

Finally, with a muted booming far in the air above them – the pop and crackle of fire ceased, the sky darkened and disarray settled itself into aftermath. A few ethereal wisps of fire and smoke were all that was left of the maelstrom.

The Colonel stood panting beyond the walls with the Brigadier General still sitting uselessly behind him. Hawkeye however was back in action already, training her gun on the smashed out windows where the insurgents were. The blackened recesses showed no sign of life. She angled herself better around the corner of the wall and still saw no sign of activity.

A hand rested softly on her gun. Having heard no approach, her instincts had her swing the gun towards the 'intruder.' Mustang stood looking at her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. His fingers snatched and trembled on top of hers – the physical fallout from his gruelling alchemy.

"They're dead – suffocated." He said, his voice smoke-tired and rasping. His face was blackened with soot and his eyes were rimmed red. He looked like he was about to drop where he stood. "They won't have survived that. We're lucky we did." He didn't bother to look over his shoulder at Lockheed, but Hawkeye knew he scorned the man with that last sentence.

He looked like he was about to speak again when his eyes unfocussed and a huge shuddering breath took him. He placed his hands on his knees to stop from falling. Hawkeye moved to steady him but he regained himself again, albeit out of breath and fatigued.

"That fu- idiot interrupted my transmutation. The rebound-" he caught his breath with another racking shudder, "-was massive. Sticks with you for hours. Oh-" He moaned as another wave rushed into him. Hawkeye pressed her palm to his shoulder to keep him in place, the tip of her thumb resting gently on his neck. She could feel the pulse pounding away under his slick skin.

"Mustang!" Havoc's voice turned their heads. Breda pressed kindly on Hawkeye's arm and moved aside to let the Lieutenant through. "Fuery!" He panted as he approached.

Hawkeye stood and faced her comrade. "Havoc?"

Havoc sucked in a distressed breath and looked up in an effort to keep in control. "The silo. We think Fuery went in. No sign of him." Another breath. "That second explosion. Knocked in. Damn-"

"Where?" Mustang asked, pushing himself forward on shaking legs. He squeezed tightly on Havoc's shoulder as he passed him, half to comfort the man and half to steady himself. The ringing had returned to his ears.

He didn't bother to look back at his team as he spoke; he knew they would be listening for his command. Whether the General had found his feet yet was anyone's guess.

"Falman stay with Lockheed! Breda, gather the General's men and start a clean up. Stay alert. There could be more of them." Mustang ordered, his words being met with a stout, "Yes, Sir!"

His heart thudded hard in his chest as he charged forward, adrenalin the only thing keeping him on his feet. He sensed Hawkeye and Havoc flank him and could feel the electricity of anxiety lace off them as they marched.

"What's in the silo?" He asked, trying his best to sound calm but hearing the beginnings of raw fear for his subordinate biting at his words. His mind raced forward into a field of possibilities. If the silo was empty, the young Sergeant would have fallen to his death. Full, and he would drown. A vision of a small body crumbled on the silo's floor; slender fingers groping at slick, unmerciful walls: either possibility was dreadful. He was just a boy.

"Slurry – waste, Sir." Havoc said, breaking into a jog as his Colonel did.

"Where's Ed?" The alchemist panted, as a tired hand pushed his fringe back from his face.

"Trying to get Fuery out." Havoc answered meekly, suddenly ashamed at having left Ed behind.

"No-" The Colonel uttered somewhere between a moan and a growl. Next thing he was running, then he broke into a unrestrained sprint. Ed would be in there head first if he thought it would help. What could he do? What wisdom would the child have at his disposal if he knew Fuery was in there – drowning? What if Fuery re-emerged and panicking, dragged Ed in too?

Two bodies choking on muck. Two lives snatched from him. Two boys. Two processions. Two Amestrian flags draped over two small coffins.

Mustang's left hand slapped against the thin wire of the silo's fence and he pushed himself up and over it, the hurdle doing little to interrupt his sprint.

"Fullmetal!" His voice boomed against the steel silo. "Fullmetal! Ed!" He was screaming. He didn't care.

"What?" A small voice screamed back. Shortly after, a blond head appeared over the rim of the silo.

Mustang scowled and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Get down here!" He would allow himself no relief until he had both boys next to him.

"Fuery-!" Ed started to protest.

Mustang threw his arm to the side angrily. "Now!"

Ed hesitated for a moment, seemingly weighing up how much Mustang meant business. His decision made, his head disappeared from sight and shortly after they could hear the uneven clang as he raced his way down the silo's stairs.

Mustang ordered his thoughts to calm. "Havoc-"

The Lieutenant joined him at his side.

"Was Fuery wearing his radio pack when you last saw him?"

Havoc caught Mustang's drift immediately. If Fuery went in with his pack still on, the likelihood was that he would sink straight to the bottom. The thing weighed 40 pounds at least.

"Yes Sir. No sign of it up there either. He went in with it on. Definitely." Havoc answered and noticing Ed approach them, held out his arm to sling it across the youth's shoulders. There was little else the Lieutenant could think of to help matters.

Mustang turned his hard gaze on Ed. Golden eyes quivered under the scrutiny; the uncertainty reminded the Colonel of something, of someone. Young eyes: resolute but frightened. Honest, spirited and tenacious – in spite of the circumstances threatening to crush them. A youth with an untold burden. A child without the luxury of 'giving up'.

His mother's eyes. The photograph. It was in his breast pocket.

Mustang pulled off his jacket and tossed it to Hawkeye though his eyes remained on Ed.

"Fullmetal – I want you to puncture a hole about the size of a car's windscreen here." He pointed at the bottom of the silo in front of them. "As soon as the wall starts to give, stand clear. Can you do that?"

Ed fixed his shoulders and nodded. "Of course."

Mustang spread his feet and opened his arms in a goalkeeper's expectant stance. He looked back over his shoulder at his two Lieutenants, hoping the glint in his eye would look like his characteristic cockiness and not the panic that ate at him with every passing second.

"I would stand well back if I were you. This isn't going to be pleasant." He said and didn't let his eyes linger long enough to catch Hawkeye's expression of helplessness.

Like Breda, Havoc sensed the almost careless desire in Hawkeye to be closer to Mustang, whatever the situation, and so taking her gently by both arms, he guided her away from the silo.

"We'll step in when the time's right, Ri." He whispered, breaking all formality with the utterance of his old nickname for her. She resisted for a moment then settled against him a little heavier than she would have liked, pulling the Colonel's jacket closer to her. 'He's in no danger now,' she told herself. 'He's saving Fuery.'

Mustang gave Ed the nod and the boy clapped.

The transmutation worked itself through the iron of the silo's wall, the uneven paint blackening then cracking. Ed took a few steps back and unsure, sought some approval from Mustang, but the Colonel's eyes were focussed dead ahead on the dissolving metal.

A chunk about the size of a coin spat outwards as the pressure of the silo's contents pushed against the weakening wall. A stream of thick slurry spurted out of the hole and splattered on the dust in front of Mustang. The tangy smell reached him immediately and he resisted the urge to gag.

Another chunk of metal followed a few seconds later. Then another. The blackened lines of eroding iron were thicker now and it would only be a matter time before the whole transmuted panel was forced out.

Mustang shifted his feet on the ground and stretched his fingers.

There was a dull groaning as the last of the metal crumbled and a solid wave of sharp smelling muck surged out. It smashed into Mustang's legs and hands, his waist and torso. Lumps were thrown up from the impact onto his chin and face. He gagged now but pushed himself forward into the shit and grime, his hands searching for an arm, a leg, the radio – any sign of Fuery.

He could vaguely hear Havoc groan behind him, and wanted to do the same himself, but he kept his lips tight against the putrid torrent. Any second now, he knew the limp body of his second to youngest subordinate would wash against his shins, lungs full of the awful waste. Vomit rushed up his gullet but with his hands engaged in his search for Fuery, he couldn't spare them to stop the onslaught. He choked and coughed the watery mess out to the side as his vision swam with the hot tears of nausea.

Then it happened. Like a piece of driftwood, a form struck against the Colonel's legs. Mustang reached down and groped about for some purchase on the body. With his left hand, he could feel the roundness of Fuery's head, the short hair and below that an ear. His right hand slid across the rigid shoulder of the uniform and found the Sergeant's arm, the slurry surging all the while.

He pulled Fuery free of the mess and losing his footing, brought both of them crashing into the shallow puddle to the side of the gushing hole. He was on his feet again in a second and taking Fuery under the arms, slammed him against the silo.

Nothing could be seen of the boy, he was so thoroughly covered in the muck. His glasses were gone and he lost his backpack when Mustang lifted him from the puddle. Not one square inch of skin was visible, nor one thread of his blue uniform.

Mustang felt Havoc's strong hand on his arm and shrugged it off with a harsh, "Away!"

He had this under control. The boy had pledged his life to him. Fuery's life _belonged_ to him and it would not be taken from him. He pulled on the Sergeant's lapels and slammed him against the steel wall a second time, an agonised 'ah' escaping from his throat.

"Sir!" Havoc said, and reached for his arm again but it was batted back.

"No!" Mustang shouted, and like a stubborn child with a ragdoll, held fast to his unmoving subordinate.

Using one hand to keep the body upright, Mustang wiped the other on his shirt to reveal the array. He took a breath and forced it into Fuery's mouth then far into his throat. The Sergeant's teeth caught briefly on the rough ignition cloth. Another wave of nausea hit the Colonel and he vomited again in the space between their feet. He wiped his mouth clumsily on his shoulder.

"Fuery!" Mustang shouted. "Sergeant! Kain!"

Ed watched in fascinated horror at the sight unfolding before him. Colonel Mustang, the _bastard_ Mustang: head to toe in shit and screaming, punching, beating life back into his subordinate. Hawkeye rushed past Ed, the Colonel's jacket tucked under one arm and together with Havoc, tried to restrain the older man. The Colonel shifted so his chest was flat against Fuery's to keep the body upright, while his free hand swiped at the two of them. That's when Ed noticed what Mustang's right hand was doing.

"Stop!" Ed shouted. Neither soldier reacted. "Stop! Stop – he'll do it! Look!"

Both Lieutenants spun to look at Ed, their faces tight.

Ed spoke softly, his belief that the Colonel would succeed swelling in him. No – not succeed. That he wouldn't fail. That these were not the terms under which he would lose a subordinate.

All three watched the Colonel's machinations with a kind of wonder, Hawkeye remaining within arm's reach.

Mustang, with one hand still pushed into Fuery's mouth leant forward and pressed their cheeks together. Even as he whispered '_No, no, no, no'_ he was listening to the workings of his alchemy in the boy's chest. Manipulating the oxygen and carbon dioxide in the air around them, the same hand probed and prompted the Sergeant's gag reflex. His feet were shifting in the sludge below them and both bodies slid against each other, but each time he felt he was about to fall, Mustang adjusted himself with a grunt and another chorus of pleading words.

Muscles tightened around his fingers. He forced more oxygen into the Sergeant's lungs as he felt the body come to life. The effort of subtlety was starting to take its toll and if Fuery didn't grab hold of life soon, Mustang would find himself on the cusp of a similar fate.

Another spasm around his fingers, then a cough.

Mustang pulled his hand free and grabbed Fuery into a broken hug, pulling him hard around his trunk. The boy's eyes shot open: white orbs in a field of brown. His whole body heaved painfully and he emptied a shower of slurry against Mustang's neck and over his shoulder. Then another, dragging the stuff up from both belly and lung.

Mustang grabbed at the nape of Fuery's neck and held him through his terrible catharsis. A sob broke from the Sergeant – the saddest sound Mustang had ever heard. Thin fingers groped at his face, clawing for comfort impossible for any one person to give. They pushed at his nose and mouth then snatched at his hair: the hungry gestures of a distraught child.

Mustang swallowed back his own upset. What could he possibly say to this? He couldn't say, "It's okay." How could he? It wasn't okay – it was awful.

The Sergeant retched again, and as his confusion ebbed and his predicament became clear he broke into a wail of distress. Mustang held on tighter for it, ignoring the weak fists that thumped at his back and face.

He dug his fingers into the short cut of Fuery's hair and sank them both to the ground in a crumpled heap of two dirt-caked bodies. It was impossible to tell where one frame ended and the other began as they sat rocking. Mustang made comforting noises beyond his own comprehension, knowing only that they sounded right. After a few moments, Fuery tried to pull away, a frantic sort of embarrassment overcoming him, but his superior's hold was immovable.

"I'm so s-sorry-" the boy hacked out, "I'm s-sorry."

They were so close that when Mustang puffed out a dry laugh, the breath shot straight into Fuery's ear. "Don't be daft."

"I'm w-w-" Fuery had to catch his breath through his crying. He was beginning to hyperventilate. "I'm w-weak."

Mustang pulled back his head to regard Fuery. His eyes stung and a smile crossed his face at the Sergeant's insane self-consciousness. "Weak? You're the only guy _I_ know who's dived head first into a tank full of shit."

Fuery blinked blankly for a few seconds, Mustang's oblique attempt at comfort lost on him at first. Then a giddy bubble of laughter split through his sobs.

"You s-s-stink, C-Colonel." He stuttered and continued crying softly, the breaths catching. He allowed Mustang to guide his forehead against his shoulder again.

"You're not smelling so hot yourself, Sergeant." Mustang laughed back and ran his thumb in an arc above Fuery's ear.

Hawkeye caught the dampness in Havoc's eyes and smiled sadly at him. He sniffed and nodded in quiet acknowledgment. Ed stood unmoving beside them.

The two slight men, adorned with filth, were totally indistinguishable from each other in the dying light of day. Only Fuery's hacking and sobbing betrayed his identity. He had started shivering violently.

"Cold." Mustang said and couldn't be sure whether he was asking question or making a statement. He was about to ask Hawkeye for his jacket when he heard a commotion from behind him.

Lockheed. Again.

The General's protestations drowned out those of Hawkeye, Havoc and even Ed. Mustang didn't have ponder too hard on the man's reason for the interruption. There was no bait like wounded pride for an old military dog.

"Lockheed?" Fuery asked breathlessly.

"Yeap." Mustang answered through a sigh.

"What an asshole." Fuery said softly, exhaustion beginning to take him.

Mustang laughed hard at that, holding out one arm in a casual gesture for his jacket. He didn't have to ask Hawkeye twice. She threw the well decorated jacket straight into his outstretched hand as she continued arguing with Lockheed.

"Let me through! That's an order!" The General squealed.

Mustang spoke quietly and with effort as he wrapped his jacket around Fuery's narrow shoulders, a small defence against the dropping temperature. "Such language. I think Ed's a bad influence on you, Fuery." He raised the boy's chin with his finger and looked him in the eye. "I can't question your judgement though: he _is_ an asshole."

The Sergeant gave a weak laugh. Mustang squeezed his shoulder and raised himself into a crouch.

"Mustang!" Lockheed shouted.

"Havoc." Mustang called back gently, beckoning the Lieutenant to take his place until they could get the Sergeant to a hospital.

"Yes, General?" Mustang asked, every last iota of his strength forced into his voice. He wavered perilously on his feet and for a second he actually thought he was going to keel over altogether, but the notion didn't bother him that much. He could do with a lie down.

Lockheed's jowls shook with indignation. "You – you assaulted a superior officer!"

"I did what was necessary." Mustang answered steadily, limping his way towards the man to save Fuery's tired mind from the exchange.

"You're a mess, Mustang. Get your man off the damn ground."

The Colonel laughed obnoxiously making everyone jump in their skins a little. "Excuse me, General but you are aware of what just happened? Of what _you_ managed to accomplish?"

"Shut up, Flame and listen to-"

Mustang kept talking, inching forward on weary legs. When he reached Ed, he leant heavily on his shoulder with one hand. Ed clutched his wrist in turn, glad to lend his support to most acts of insubordination.

"You listen!" Mustang said with venom. "I hold you accountable for everything that went wrong today and I have twenty witnesses who will make sure the State does the same. You're a liability, General and everyone knows it. _Your _men especially."

Lockheed stepped forward. Hawkeye pushed hard against the General's chest to force him back. Everything was going wrong, crumbling around them. Where was her Colonel's usual poise? Exhaustion had stolen his unmatchable talent for self-control. She knew that Lockheed's men didn't hold much respect for their own commander, but in a military court they would still be sworn to quote insubordination from the Colonel if that's what they saw.

"Sir-" She cautioned in a threatening voice, as though she were talking to a misbehaving Hayate.

"You spoiled, fucking brat. What kind of a leader stands waist deep in slurry? Look at you, you're covered in shit."

"Rather than be full of it – Sir." Mustang spat back.

"You!" Lockheed launched forward and finding himself restrained again by Hawkeye, delivered a vicious swipe to her face. Mustang saw red.

He half ran, half fell forwards and when he was an inch away from the General he felt himself pulled then lifted backwards by the belly. He pushed, slipped and struggled against the strong hold, a bestial yowl tearing from his smoke ravaged throat. One of the arms encircling him was distinctly more solid that the other.

"Let go, Fullmetal."

Hawkeye replaced her hand on Lockheed's shoulder, still reeling from the blow. Blood trickled from her nose and dripped from her top lip. "_Don't_ - let go, Edward."

Ed nodded an affirmation at Hawkeye, still shocked from the feeling of Mustang's ribs beneath his real arm. Despite his own small stature, Ed was stunned; the man was tiny. It was like someone had kidnapped the bastard Colonel he knew and replaced him with this wiry, feral, animal writhing within his hold.

Breda and Falman with a handful of Lockheed's men joined in the fray, separating the two men with cries for peace and outstretched arms.

With his size and weight, all it took was Lockheed feigning a fall to break apart the group holding him. In a second, he had yanked Mustang free from his pack by the collar of his shirt. The fracas became louder and more chaotic then. Desperate hands tried to pull the Colonel free from the General's angry grasp.

Mustang only laughed. "Tell me General – did you strike Colonel Mead before you sent him to his death in the Baghlan?"

At the memory of his sullied past in Ishbal, Lockheed's fist required little direction. He didn't care about the witnesses, he would shut Mustang up.

Later when they were asked, no one could be sure of what came first: the crack of rifle fire or the sound of Lockheed's fist connecting with Mustang's jaw.

Everyone heard what followed though; Mustang especially, as he disentangled himself from the supportive arms of his own subordinates, _and_ Lockheed's. He reached a shaking hand to rub at his throbbing jaw but when he really thought about it: everything was shaking, everything was throbbing painfully.

Havoc's voice, fraught and yearning, called out for some recognition of the terrible thing that had come to pass.

"Fuery's been hit! Fuery's been hit!"

Mustang thought for the world that he was answering his Lieutenant, even that he was walking back towards the fallen Sergeant. He saw Hawkeye flash past him with her gun pointed somewhere beyond the silo. With a jarring of thoughts he realised he hadn't moved at all. Couldn't in fact. He clutched at nothing as his world went blank to a screeching in his ears. His last thought was his jacket, _his_ stripes and colours, on the young Sergeant's shoulders.

The bullet was for him.

* * *

AN: As beforewith the Xingese/Chinese, _Fajarah_ was inspired by Arabic.

Ta for reading.


	15. Actually, It's Darkness

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

**Huge **thanks to **Southpaw **for her glorious beta reading and to **Fudfoodle** for being my idea 'bouncer offer'... that's right, 'bouncer offer'.

Massive thanks also to everyone who's fav'd and put alerts on, and to those who've taken the time to review - I can't tell you how much it's appreciated. Well - I can - loads! Yeo!

A/N: Nappy is UK diaper.

So without further ado!

* * *

Hawkeye lost herself in the passing whispers of soft shoes on the Central Infirmary's corridors. Though her eyes were fixed on the man stretched out in front of her, she found that increasingly they were losing focus as the night wore on. With a weary sniffle, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and readjusted her grip on the Colonel's pale hand, disturbed by the vivid blue veins cording his skin. Every now and then, his fingers tightened as another violent shudder took him – the fallout from his interrupted transmutation. A small cry would break from him, and he would pull at the thin tube snaking its way into his mouth and down his gullet. She would recover the hand with a sigh and smooth back his hair from his damp, creased brow.

When they were first rushed in, both he and Fuery were snatched from the team to be scrubbed down and cleaned with powdery disinfectant. The moment the Sergeant was deemed clean enough to be operated on, he was spirited off to surgery – his life sputtering out with every passing moment. Meanwhile the Colonel got a more thorough going over, and was wheeled into his room lightly dusted with the sanitising powder as well as sporting a suspicious patch shaved out of his hair. She couldn't help but smile sourly at what he would make of _that_ when he woke up.

She sent the rest of the command home just under an hour ago, and physically had to walk Ed to the doorway before he turned his golden eyes away from the Colonel and waved his goodbye. He chanced one more look over his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner, an embarrassed sort of concern playing on his features. He had done so well throughout the mission that Hawkeye was a little disappointed she forgot to tell him so. Her small regret was interrupted by an uneven knocking.

"Dr Knox." Hawkeye attempted a pleasant greeting to the man standing awkwardly in the doorway but her energy wasn't up to much. She considered the providence of letting go of Mustang's hand, but guessed the man would spot the gesture immediately and so opted for loosening her fingers, just a little.

"Miss Hawkeye – may I?" The man asked, already taking a step into the room, his keen eyes focussing on the Colonel.

Hawkeye coughed and nodded to the seat across the bed from her. Knox let out a wheezing sigh as he sat down and rested his stubbled chin on the knuckles of his joined hands.

"Mustang – you idiot." He said quietly.

Hawkeye didn't respond. She didn't _really_ want Knox to be there, but who was she to say? The man had known Chris Mustang for years and had been in the Colonel's life for a long time. Longer than Hawkeye in fact. Any possessiveness she felt would just have to be swallowed.

"You look terrible, Lieutenant." He said, with his eyes so focussed on Mustang's sleeping form that at first Hawkeye thought that he got the rank confused. She was put right as the doctor's dark green eyes slid up to meet her own. "You really do look dreadful. Why don't you go home? I can look after this brat – he'll be fine."

Resistance flashed across Hawkeye's face. After Izumi Curtis' warning, she couldn't possibly leave him, whether she was tired or not. The doctor leant forward and with more emphasis spoke again. "He'll be fine. Exhaustion. The term 'burnout' has never applied more. Ha!"

Hawkeye stared at him, noting that despite his gruffness, his fingers moved delicately – _preciously _ as he fiddled with the IV needle taped into the back of Mustang's left hand.

"They patched up your neck nice and neatly, Lieutenant." He said distractedly as he continued to check the Colonel over. "I can't say the same about your nose. You'll have black eyes in the morning I'm sure..." He looked at her, his gaze assessing. "Something nasty catch you in the face?"

Hawkeye smiled grimly. "Something like that."

The room settled into quiet again and she became suddenly aware of the sound of her own breathing. She shifted uncomfortably but Knox didn't seem to notice. It was curious, the doctor being there, and the more he fiddled, the more Hawkeye realised that his machinations really had no purpose. He was stalling. Grumpy as he was, it wouldn't do for him to show up at Mustang's bedside out of _mere_ concern. Rather it was more comfortable for him to come with airs of medical pedantry to fidget with the equipment. His was certainly a personality paradoxical enough to contend with Mustang's - nonchalance on the one hand and overprotectiveness on the other. As a coroner, she wouldn't have expected him to be in the hospital past five either. A brief, knowing smirk in her direction told Hawkeye that the doctor had guessed at her suspicions.

"I have a friend who leaves early once or twice a month to take his daughter out to dinner. She's a fat divorcee and he hates letting her down – as you would: the girl's hopeless. Usually he has cover arranged but not tonight. The 'powers that be' are so tight in this damn place, that they wouldn't let him go unless he found someone to pick up his rounds." He half-heartedly pulled a tape measure from his pocket and wrapped it around Mustang's upper arm as he continued talking in his mumbled, shuffling way. "They didn't seem to care that I haven't worked with the living for the better part of eight years – so here I am. You should see this girl though: a _monster_. Good job he's a doctor or he wouldn't be able to afford the dinner bill."

He sighed then and sat back with his big hands folded across his gut. He worked his lips from side to side and started whistling through his teeth. He checked his watch.

"How's Fuery?" Hawkeye asked, managing – just – to quell the anxious edge in her voice.

"The little chap?" Knox asked back lightly.

Hawkeye nodded and fixed her grip on Mustang's limp hand. It was strange: talking across him like this. He was always so _involved_ it was hard to believe he wasn't privy to their every word.

Knox fidgeted with the tape measure. "They should be bringing him out of surgery any time now. His gut is a mess but the guys in surgery are great at what they do – best in the world. His life is safe but I can't guarantee the quality of it. The tall blond with the goofy hair -"

Hawkeye laughed through her nose though her stomach was churning at the flippant way the doctor talked about the wounded Fuery. "Jean Havoc." She said.

"The very one – he said the little guy was writhing around a lot when he was shot – so the angle was just about as shallow as you can get. It ripped through a lot of stuff in there. Messy messy messy."

Hawkeye felt anger lance through her. She understood that doctors had a different way of looking at things but if he spoke that way to Mustang about Fuery's condition it would tear him apart. Fuery was wearing his jacket after all and it didn't take a genius to work out who the intended target was.

"I would appreciate it, sir, if you-"

"I know, I know. I can be a little – more than a little – insensitive. I'm sorry Lieutenant. This -" he gestured to Mustang. "Has caught me a little off guard. I never thought I'd be sitting over him like this again."

Hawkeye quirked an eyebrow. "Again?"

Knox huffed out a humourless laugh. "No – I don't suppose he would remember. Knowing him, even if he did remember I doubt he would say anything to anybody. Absolutely not. What am I _thinking_?" He crossed one leg over the other and spoke to her though his eyes remained on the Colonel. "It was '88 or '89... '89, when Chris first – eh – introduced us. He would have been four at the most and I had just turned twenty-two and was interning at the children's hospital. Like most of us in the medical profession, I had a healthy drinking habit and spent a _lot_ of time in Chris' place – so we got to know each other as well as landladies and punters ever do.

"One night I was sitting at the bar and she came rushing over, 'Thank goodness you're here,' she said. She dragged me by the arm into a back room and it being Chris Mustang's place, I didn't know what to expect. It could have been a gang of Xingese prostitute acrobats and it wouldn't have surprised me half as much as finding a little Xingese runt there."

He took a moment and a sad smile washed across his face. Hawkeye was riveted, and him stopping was like someone pulling the needle from a record.

"He was in really bad shape. I mean his _lungs_ were a disaster and the sound that kid made when he breathed – awful. He must have been living with tuberculosis for the better part of a year and you could have carried him on one arm he was so small. He was only a few weeks away from death by my estimations... I'm still surprised we managed to pull him back actually.

"He was a brat though. Didn't want to be treated. Didn't want to eat. Didn't want to drink. Didn't want to sit still, didn't want to move. Here was Chris Mustang – a seriously scary woman – begging _me_ for antibiotics and begging him to behave, but the little shit just kept squealing and hacking and thrashing. So I took my hand like this," Knox lifted his hand in a threatening gesture, "and he just stopped. Just like that. He lay there panting out these big wet breaths and just stared and stared at my hand. Then he reached up with one of his little paws and placed it palm to palm against mine, totally fascinated. It wasn't even a third of the size of mine. I don't know what it was about my hand: maybe all Xingese chaps have seamstresses' fingers, but he just couldn't get over the size of my hand and me his. He was so, so tiny."

Knox looked at Mustang's hand in Hawkeye's and another faraway smile played on his lips. "And now look – a man's hands... and the things he's had to do with -" Knox interrupted himself with a cough. "Anyway, you didn't need to know that. Ancient history."

Hawkeye smiled fondly at him. "I'm glad you shared it. You should let him know."

Knox threw up his hands and slapped them down on his legs. "Ha! No way! Mustang would have the whole world think he never shat in a nappy. Those are days I dare say he's tried hard to forget."

"There are a lot of them." Hawkeye said quietly and rubbed her thumb across Mustang's hand, trying to imagine the small boy who so admired Dr Knox's rough skin and strong fingers. "And so much he wants to forget."

Her comment seemed to throw a sort of rope across the space between them because when their eyes met again it seemed they understood each other, albeit off-kilter and uncanny.

"You should go home Lieutenant. He's in safe hands."

"I can't. I have a duty-"

Knox cocked his head. "You have a duty to be in peak condition in _order_ to protect him Lieutenant. Can you honestly tell me if I hadn't knocked you would have heard the door?"

Hawkeye must have been overtired because his question wounded her more than she could have imagined. Would she have heard the door or was she concentrating too much on keeping her eyes open? She shook her head. "I-"

Knox leant forward with the fingers of one had curled comfortably around Mustang's wrist. "I get it. You think an old guy like me can't look after one lame alchemist, eh?"

She had to be honest. "Yes... I do. I'm sorry."

Knox made a bellowing 'ha' sound as he laughed, struck by her honesty. That rope between them seemed to thicken with her words.

"You're right – I'm utterly useless with all this stuff, but I've been in contact with Chris. She's secured a couple of _her_ guys to escort Mustang home – real ugly brutes but loyal to a fault. Neither of them have many teeth, which can only be a good sign in my opinion – you two are far too glossy to be any good." There was that crooked smile again. "We'll take him out the back entrance and won't sign the official discharge papers until tomorrow morning. She's got it all worked out so..."

Hawkeye stared long and hard at Knox's encouraging eyes, feeling impossibly tired. He was right, of course: if she and Mustang were attacked on their own they would be in serious trouble. She barely had the strength to keep her eyes open, never mind defend herself and her exhausted commander.

Knox sensed it would take just a little more persuasion before he had her. "I'm not about to get all careless with his life after saving it all those years ago... have some faith blondie."

A yawning silence followed before Hawkeye sighed sharply and stood, fishing through her pocket for her keys. Finding them, she pulled them free but didn't notice they had something caught in between the metal loops. A few small objects fell to the floor with a soft pattering: the teeth Mustang received in the threatening letter.

Knox cocked his head curiously as she picked them up. He caught sight of one in her hand. "Now that _is_ interesting, Lieutenant."

Hawkeye would never have thought to share the threats with Knox but the teeth still hadn't been confirmed as being human and he _was_ a coroner after all. It was an opportunity she would be sorry to miss. She passed one across to the doctor. "The Colonel has received a series of threatening messages. These were included in the first letter. The sender claims that they're the Colonel's birth mother's. He wouldn't let -" she faltered, "we aren't sure if they're human or not."

"Gruesome stuff." He muttered, turning a sizeable molar between his fingers. "Could be a pig's tooth but it looks human enough to me. You mind if I keep hold of this for testing?"

"By all means."

"Even if it is human, it could have been pulled from anyone's jaw: a 200lb plumber from Dublith or some old bag who's popped her clogs – it isn't necessarily his mother. Are you worried?"

Hawkeye stuffed the teeth back in her pocket and started pulling a spare key free from the ring. "Yes. Most likely the person who sent the letters is connected to the gunman who fired at Sergeant Fuery – in the dusk we can assume they thought it was the Colonel."

"I see." Knox said, shoving the tooth in a handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket. "Anyway blondie, you should get home – I can see your eyelids drooping and it doesn't suit you." He smiled secretively. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone that the key you've got there is for any purpose other than 'care taking'. I know you soldiers like to keep things professional. I'm pleased he won't be alone tonight though, whatever it is you two have got going on."

Hawkeye rolled her eyes and passed the key to him. "Purely professional sir."

Knox laughed and stood to see her to the door. "I'm sure! Well it's a real shame if that's the case. It would suit him to be with a little pistol like you – keep him in line. Anyway-" he gave her an honest smile, "it's been nice chatting with you Lieutenant. Make sure you get home safely. I'll send him your way when he decides to join the land of the living. He'll show up scratching at your door like a stray cat - promise."

Hawkeye glanced past Knox to take a final look at Mustang. "It feels strange to be leaving him like this." She sighed. "After everything's finished and everyone's gone home, it's always just the two of us. But today – I'm exhausted. I kept - " She clenched her hands as she remembered the horrible moment when Breda called out to them all. "When I saw him lying on the ground... I was sure..."

Knox grabbed her by the shoulders. "You youngsters today – always focussing on the _ifs_. Go home, have a stiff drink and stop your thoughts. You'll give yourself wrinkles if you're not careful and together with that bust nose and those droopy eyelids your face will be a horror. You'll have to buy a cat and stay at home every Saturday night reading terrible romance novels while your Colonel weeps over photographs of what you used to look like."

Hawkeye couldn't help but laugh. Eccentric didn't even _begin_ to describe Dr Knox. "I'll take your advice on board."

She drew her coat tighter and waved goodbye. When she was about half way down the corridor she heard the strange doctor call after her.

"Hey blondie! What do you think of me giving Mustang a sick line for two weeks?"

Hawkeye considered his suggestion with a knowing smile. "You can try but I should think he'll be back at his desk on Friday. He'll be head hunting now. After what happened to Fuery-"

"Okay, okay! I get it. Always so glum - it puts years on an old guy like me to see you kids whinging and imagining the worst..." He went back into the room muttering.

When she heard the door click closed, Hawkeye drew a steadying breath and headed for the exit still thinking about the mismatched hands pressed palm to palm.

Knox paused on the other side of the door. Mustang lay unmoving on the bed in front of him and something about the arrangement of translucent wires running in and out of him made the doctor feel queasy, which was ludicrous given what he did for a living. "Damn stupid idiot." He mumbled.

He had just taken a seat when there was a knocking at the door.

"Come in." Knox said gruffly, pulling his seat a little closer to Mustang.

One of the nurses who helped disinfect the soldiers opened the door apologetically and took an unsure step into the room. He had something in his hand.

"Sorry doctor, but we found this in the Sergeant's jacket and thought we should pass it to the Colonel for safekeeping. It's practically ruined but with it being a picture we didn't want to destroy it with the rest of the Sergeant's uniform. We cleaned it as best we could."

Knox grunted his acceptance and took the picture from the young nurse who left without another word.

The bottom of the picture was totally obscured with the Sergeant's blood and only about an inch at the top was visible – just enough to see a face; a face he recognised.

"What the -"

It had been a tour with his parents to the east – they called it a celebration of his eighteenth birthday but he knew they were dying to get away from Central for a few months and just needed an excuse. They were fighting again and when the fighting started it was never too long until his parents thought up an expensive distraction. His father told him it would be life changing, that it would broaden his horizons, and it did.

They spent most of their time in the south of Xing and while his parents got merrily drunk in the upmarket restaurants and hotels, Knox would entertain himself by studying his chemistry and anatomy books.

Occasionally he would join them and sip on whiskey until he couldn't see straight. If his parents weren't watching he would have a fumble with one of the hotel cleaners or delivery girls. They all fawned over the young, 'soon to be doctor' and he had his pick of slim-hipped, delicate girls. There was one though, the vegetable girl for The Imperial Hotel, who was notably less about fawning and more about pushing, kicking, shouting and biting. She scarcely had a word of Amestrian but she didn't need it, her gestures were strong enough. After a few illicit meetings in the dark alley by the side of the hotel she took him by his tie and 'broadened his horizons' considerably. Even years after he was married, he could still see her shrewd eyes and feel the silk of her hair brush against his then clumsy fingers. Thirty years had done little to erase that face from his memory.

The face in the photograph.

* * *

He was standing in a red room. The walls were red. The floor, ceiling, fixtures: everything was _that_ shade of red.

Though he knew he was standing, he also had the funniest sensation that he couldn't possibly be 'doing' anything because he felt distinctly insubstantial. Then it struck him: he knew he was dreaming, knew it as surely as the room was red.

He looked down and seeing a pair of boots figured that, at least in the dream room, he was in fact standing and not simply floating in space.

"What-?" He jumped at the sound of his own voice. It seemed at once young and old and when he looked down again he saw a pair of tiny, bare feet.

He held a hand in front of his face and it was, of course, a child's hand. The red room was getting stranger by the second.

He tried to remember entering the room but when he thought on it, his mind stopped working and his head was flooded with the buzzing of a thousand flies. The notion struck him then that he actually knew very little about his predicament. Where the room was, how long he had been there and what function the scene served remained a total mystery to him. Even more worrisome was the sudden knowledge that not only was his age an unknown and apparently fluid matter, he also had no idea who he was.

He tried asking the dream room. "Who am I?"

As soon as he said it, his little voice piercing the oppressive quiet of the room, he felt ridiculous. He had to give the room some credit though: there was a great yawning sound and before he knew it, a black hole had opened up in the middle of the carpet.

He laughed shyly. Was that the room's answer? A hole? The room had answered his question with a _nothing_.

'Maybe there's something in the hole,' he thought, but a fear gripped him in that moment and he felt in every inch of his small body that going near the hole was a bad idea.

The room didn't offer him a choice. With the same dull sound as before, the walls started moving inward. As they did, the red plaster from the ceiling was shaken loose and floated down in a flurry of scarlet snow. He screamed when the encroaching wall pushed against his back and try as he might, he couldn't stop its progression. Within seconds he was only a foot away from the hole and the walls only stopped when his toes stuck out over the lip of the cavity. He was now trapped in a horrid red space of only a couple of feet squared.

He started shaking and soon his eyes were filled with tears. He sobbed into his little hands. He knew there was someone he should be calling for but he couldn't remember the word and so he tried to weep as silently as he could. He didn't want the room to hear.

Cool air drifted up from the hole and wafted through his toes making him shiver even more. He wished he could be big again and wear his boots. He felt strong when he was big.

He drew his wet fingers from his face and looked down.

Two bright red eyes regarded him from the darkness and the more he looked, the more light seeped into the space until _he_ was in the dark and the hole was lit with the same eerie redness. 'Perhaps I'm now in the hole,' he thought.

Watching him from the 'new' red room was a huge black serpent coiled tightly about itself. A pink tongue raced out of its mouth and quivered in the air before being drawn back in. He felt sick as he watched the huge muscles of the snake's body shift and writhe, scales glistening black and reflecting crimson.

The snake creature yawned then spoke. At first he didn't understand it, the word sounded funny; another language from a country he couldn't know. When the serpent spoke again though, the word was very clear. "Mine." It said.

It sprang upwards, its huge mouth opening to show wicked fangs and the soft, muted pink of its gums.

Was he taken? He couldn't be sure but then it seemed he opened his eyes anew.

He had the words again and knew who he was. Roy Mustang. Of course – how silly of him.

He was naked, lying in bed and knew that he had recovered his adulthood. He smiled when a hand slid over his waist and rested on his stomach. Riza.

He turned around smoothly and his smile grew when he saw that she must still be sleeping. He ran a hand down her arm and ghosted it across her waist until it stopped at her swollen belly. She was pregnant. He couldn't remember _that_ particular detail but he flushed with unprecedented excitement.

"My word." He whispered, his shaking hand holding onto her tummy as though it were made of crystal. It was wonderful. Their child was in there, growing and becoming stronger. They made something unique and yet familiar, fragile and robust. They created a new soul – an act bigger than any alchemy.

He was broken from his admiration by the sound of lips smacking together. He thought she must be mumbling in her sleep but when he looked, something was wrong.

It was as though she was choking; there were a few untidy tosses of her head as she strained her neck and a dull clicking echoed from her throat.

"Riza." He called, shaking her by the shoulders. There was no response.

He panicked and tried to sit her up but didn't have the chance. As the choking noises continued, her lips broke open and something slick and black moved inside her mouth, pushing outwards. A head. As it squirmed and struggled against her lips, Mustang found he couldn't move. He was locked in place by some invisible force. The creature broke an arm free and Mustang saw that it was a lizard of some kind. No, not a lizard: a salamander.

"No." He said.

The salamander was hideous. It's skin was ebony black and it had two large red eyes that were lifeless and terrible. After the second leg was free it only took a moment for the rest of its body to slither out.

He tried to move again but still his body was fixed in place. He couldn't make sense of anything now. The salamander was at once ridiculous and perfectly believable. Horrifically believable.

She started choking again and soon another salamander appeared in her mouth, while its brother crawled about the bed aimlessly. He started screaming but couldn't even manage to move one finger as he watched more and more of the creatures bleed from her until the whole bed was a writhing mass of slick, black reptiles. They started pushing out from fissures in her skin, tearing at her neck and chest and all the while she lay there in peaceful slumber.

Then with an awful shifting in her belly that brushed against his as it swelled impossibly, her eyes flew open and a deafening scream tore out of her. She thrashed wildly, her fists catching him in the face and stomach as the salamanders continued to slither and shift on the sheets about them. Then she clutched at her stomach and started clawing at the flesh, taking chunks off as if it was made of butter.

"Monster! Monster!" She howled and he somehow understood that she was talking about both him and the 'thing' inside her.

As she clawed and clawed, brownish blood erupted from her and spilled out over the salamanders who lapped it up hungrily. Soon he could see something move amongst the savagery of her torn tissue. Hot tears stung his face and he was compelled to blink them away to see what monstrosity would be revealed next. As death gripped her and her thrashing quieted with a few more lazy pulls at the flesh of her stomach, he saw clearly the beast she had been carrying.

The black serpent from the red room. It seemed to be smiling as it reared its thick head from her ruined body.

He tried to scream but couldn't, something was stopping his throat. He knew immediately what it was, could feel the claws dig into his tongue as a plump tail was pulled up his gullet.

The snake spoke as Mustang lay hopelessly in a sea of blood and unblinking monsters.

"Wake up kid."

His eyes shot open but the world was nothing but a canvas of white. He could still feel the salamander's tail in his throat and grabbed at his mouth desperately but his fingers didn't meet bulging eyes and a flicking tongue. He found hands there instead.

"Mustang! Calm down – hey! Kid!" A gruff voice shouted through the blankness.

His vision cleared in time to see the end of a translucent tube yanked free from his throat.

Knox's face was there in front of him, his spectacles knocked askew and a worried grimace shaping his features. Mustang found it impossibly hard to catch his breath and he dug his fingers into Knox's shirt as an unbearable shudder wracked his body.

"Roy. Hey Mustang!" Knox prompted, his voice edged with worried surprise at Mustang's awakening. "Come on. You with me?"

Mustang loosened his grip on the doctor and fell back onto the bed, one arm draped across his hot, tired eyes. He managed to squeeze out an affirming groan.

"The feeding tube." Knox said. "Unpleasant I know, but you were running on empty."

Mustang cracked open his fingers just a little to show one bright black eye as he spoke. "I doubt I'm here through a lack of hot dinners, Knox."

Was that his voice? It was barely there, rasping and cracked. He sounded like he smoked eighty cigarettes a day.

Knox sat back and folded his arms. "Then you tell me. Why are you -"

"Where's Hawkeye?"

Knox smiled at him and Mustang didn't fail to notice a hint of condescension in those thin lips. "I sent her home. You're going to give that poor girl wrinkles. She was exhausted but would have sat here the whole night if I hadn't come in."

Mustang huffed and shifted himself uncomfortably on the bed, his dream still fresh in his mind. "Why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be cutting up dead people?"

Knox's face turned sour for a fleeting moment but he recovered himself with an exaggerated sigh. "Doing an old pal a favour."

Mustang mumbled something and tried to push himself to sitting but failed miserably. Clearly Knox thought his recumbent position was for the best because he did nothing to aid the younger man.

They sat there in silence for a few moments as Mustang tried to piece together why exactly he was there. He knew the awkward doctor wouldn't volunteer any information and was loathe to ask for fear of receiving a lecture.

It was the smell of disinfectant that cleared his thoughts. It was a raging torrent of recollection as images of the towering column of fire; Lockheed's bulging eyes; Hawkeye firing off rounds; dashing to the silo; Ed's fierce cooperation and Fuery's small body came back to him. He thought he was going to be sick.

"You okay?"

Mustang sucked in a ragged breath and nodded. His stomach clenched as he tried to fight back some violent emotion.

"My man." He said but had to clear his throat to continue. "Sergeant Fuery. Is he -"

Knox scrubbed a hand over his face and uncrossed his arms, laying one hand on the side of the bed.

"He'll live." He said simply and yet, cryptically.

Mustang knew Knox well enough to know that the bad news was there behind those simple words if he wanted it. The truth was, he _didn't_ want it – not at all but he had to hear it. It was his duty as a commander and as a friend.

"What will he – will he be...? What sort of -" Words failed him. He didn't know how to ask 'how fucked up is he?'

Knox played with the quick of one blunt thumb as he spoke, occasionally casting his clear eyes in Mustang's general direction. By now, the Colonel had removed his arm from his face and watched the doctor with open, anxious eyes.

"Well, if all goes well he'll only have lost a bit of bowel and infection will be at a minimum. He'll have to change his diet significantly and will probably have to reduce his hours for the next few years. I can't see him doing active duty again; he wouldn't be able to take the physical strain. Saying that, he'll go on to live a normal life, if slightly altered here and there." Knox glanced at Mustang who swallowed thickly and kept his black eyes fixed on the older man.

"Worst case scenario," the doctor continued solemnly, "he'll lose a good portion of bowel and I believe one of his kidneys was in trouble so that might have to go too. Listen kid, neither of you came in in ideal condition. You were both exposed to some really nasty stuff but with the Sergeant ingesting it _and_ having it enter his blood stream directly – he'll almost certainly have a long hard battle with some serious infections."

The alchemist's voice shook. "Like what?"

"This kind of thing attacks the nerves so there may be some partial or whole blindness and there's a chance he'll lose feeling in his extremities. Could be permanent or not, depending on how much fight he has in him. With the damage to his stomach the surgeons have been discussing inserting a tube in his back for external feeding. If that's the case he won't be fit enough to serve anymore."

A great weight sat on Mustang's chest and though his eyes remained on Knox his mind was a hundred miles away, back in Fuery's home town. He saw the spectacled youth sitting languidly in a yellowed room, staring through a rain streaked window at a world he could no longer enjoy. He saw him twenty years later, still in the same room, still at the same window and telling a visiting nurse who didn't care, about the days when he served the nation. How could that future possibly be? How, when Mustang had forced life back into him only moments before the shot rang out? Never in his years of struggling and self-assessment had Mustang ever felt the sting of what he felt now. He never would have thought it before, didn't give the words credence but with Fuery he found they had a place: it wasn't fair.

"What do you think?" He asked finally, loathing the look of sympathy on Knox's worn face.

"I think there's no point in taking guesses. Have some faith in your boy, Mustang and cross any bridges when you come to them. Besides – you're not out of the water yourself..." He said and reached down to a small black bag resting against his ankle.

Mustang looked away, lost in a swamp of Fuery's ruined life.

"Hey!" Knox shouted and slapped Mustang's arm.

The Colonel snapped his head across and his dark eyes soon found the needle held between the doctor's fingers.

"What...?" He groaned out.

"Don't be a brat. You need a jab and I need to take some blood. So – you know – behave." He said, humour buried somewhere in the depths of his rough voice.

Mustang looked at him incredulously before presenting an arm. Knox laughed meanly.

"You should be so lucky! Turn over and pull up that gown, this is for that backside the nurses all go crazy for..."

Mustang's incredulity flushed to quiet horror at the prospect. "I am not showing you my-"

Knox held the needle aloft and tugged away the hospital blanket in one strong swipe. "Blah blah blah Mustang – it's nothing I haven't seen before. Now turn over."

"No." Mustang said and edged away on the bed.

Knox sucked in a breath and tried to gather some patience where at the best of times, there wasn't much to be found.

"Turn over."

Mustang looked at him and drawled out his response. "No."

"You-" Knox blew out a breath. "Look – me doctor, you patient – now show me your ass!"

"I'll have you reported!"

"For trying to administer a vaccine?"

"For indecent assault!" Mustang said and sat up awkwardly to pull up the spare blanket from the bottom of the bed.

Knox saw his chance and taking advantage of Mustang's weakened state, pulled on his left arm so he was flipped on his side. The alchemist let out a broken squeal of surprise while the doctor hitched up his hospital gown and drove the needle into his right buttock.

Mustang lay stock still, totally flummoxed by Knox's sudden move. With the syringe empty, the doctor gave the spot a hard slap and pulled back down the thin material of the hospital gown.

"Now," he said lightly, "let's see that right arm."

Mustang rolled over with wide eyes and licked his lips, trying his best to recover some composure.

"Your job has driven you mad Knox." He said quietly, his lips pursed in petulance.

Knox cocked his head and considered his next statement carefully, thinking on the many conversations he and Hughes had regarding Mustang's mental health. "I could say the same for you."

Mustang's face revealed nothing but his voice was laced with icy warning. "We don't need to talk about that now."

"Alright, alright. Now, show me that arm." Knox said, and feeling the thinness of the Colonel's wrist hazarded another comment on a sore topic. "That's another thing 'we don't need to talk about' – I took a measurement before and you have the bony arm of a man half your age. I want you to start looking out for that kid."

"Mm." Mustang grunted.

It took Knox a few moments to find a vein and while he searched it was clear that Mustang was falling into a foul torpor, bogged down by worry for his comrade. Knox was rather poor at bedside chatting but he guessed it didn't really matter what he said so long as he could distract Mustang long enough until he was safely on his way to Hawkeye's house.

"Ah – one of the nurses left something for you to return to the Sergeant when he comes to." Knox said breezily.

"Oh?" Mustang asked quietly, wincing a little when the needle went in.

"A photograph-" Knox started and paused briefly when he saw Mustang tense. He adjusted himself on the seat and deliberated on the wisdom of continuing. Knox's curiosity about why the Sergeant had a photo of Fu Shi, the spirited vegetable girl from his wayward past, would be hard to satiate however.

Mustang said nothing but simply stared into space, not looking at his blood as it filtered into the syringe.

"It was of a Xingese girl. She's a real looker, it's a shame the picture's in such a bad state: you can only make out her face and no more, the rest of the photo is totally destroyed – covered in blood. You don't happen to know who she is, do you? A relation of the kid's or something?"

Mustang sucked in a hollow breath and Knox could see his left hand was wound tightly into the sheets so that his knuckles turned a polished white.

"Mustang?" Knox asked, checking the slow progress of his blood in the barrel of the needle.

"The Sergeant was wearing my jacket when he was shot."

"Huh?"

Mustang turned his tired, sad eyes towards Knox. "That woman is my mother."

Knox didn't notice the syringe fill and Mustang's blood trickle out and over his shaking fingers. For the first time that night, he was speechless.

* * *

Apologies for late update chaps - I swear these things are getting harder and harder to write! :/

Thanks for reading and for those who may not know about the significance of the salamander, it's the lizard symbol in Mustang's array. The salamander is a time worn symbol for fire.


	16. The Longest Night

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist... or any alchemists for that matter. Not even a little one.

A ginormous thanks as always to the wonderful** Southpaw.**

Another huge thanks to everyone who's fav'd, put an alert on or taken the time to write a comment or review. I'm honestly really touched by the feedback and appreciate that writing a review takes time - so yeap, thank you muchly, muchly, muchly :D

Anyway... enjoy!

* * *

Nestor Mot stood clutching the veined enamel of the bathroom sink and studied the sallow wash of his reflection in the mirror. The sight wasn't wholly unpleasant, not monstrous at least, but it was far from the elegant countenance of Colonel Mustang. Mot raised a slim finger and pulled at the loose skin under his eye to reveal the sickly white behind it. He imagined that somewhere, locked behind the egg-like whites and dull green irises lay his soul: fretting and pitiful. He couldn't be farther from the striking contrast of alabaster and jet; confidence and poise that the Colonel possessed with such effortlessness and composure. He at once loathed and adored the distance between them. How he wished to be more like Mustang, but at the very same instant, the thought that the great Flame Alchemist could be touched by someone as bland and unattractive as him made him shudder with disgust. No – the paradox remained: the magnetism of wishing to be more like Mustang and knowing that the very notion would be repelled by all reason and sense.

The weak, yellow light hummed above him and somewhere in the cold outside a dog was barking, the sound like rusty hinges on an old garden fence. It cut through him and he was sure that if the yapping beast stood before him now he would kill it without a second thought. His disgust was violent that night, his hatred hot and swarming – he needed to punish someone and was sick of punishing himself. He was growing tired too of Central, and despite knowing that the big event was just around the corner, found it harder to fight away his anxieties about the place.

He sneered at the image in the mirror and the image sneered back, slightly browned teeth looking even more so in the pallid glow from the single bulb. He couldn't believe his poor luck – to have sent Mustang the photo of his mother only to have him snatched from his reach by a mission to the sewage plant. He knew that if he had managed to contact the Colonel he would have been able to chisel away more of his resolve, force the waves of doubt against his buttressed selfhood. As it was, he could only watch the Colonel's alchemy streak across the city sky from the industrial district and follow the paltry updates from the mission on the wireless radio.

That photograph was the most provocative of all the tokens he stole from Madame Christmas' house. Not only was it the perfect means with which to goad the Colonel about his background, it also showed the child-Mustang only weeks after Po-Yang made his home in the boy's body – if indeed that was the case. To think of Po-Yang's soul, still red hot and fluid, sitting in the cavity of the infant was unbearably tantalising. It was that very fluidity that Mot's grand array was designed to recapture, and so release the soul of Wei Po-Yang into the light of the new world. The very thought of it set Mot's hands to sweating and he had to adjust himself as they slid across the rim of the sink.

What then would happen to Mustang's soul, he wondered. What indeed – Mot was certain of every aspect of his transmutation apart from that one element. The world was too vast, time too loose and the mathematics of his array too beautifully simple to be sure of anything in that regard. Whatever the case, Mot found that when that particular curiosity struck him, he felt a dull sadness throb in his middle. There was a peculiar impossibility to a world without Roy Mustang.

Mot exited the bathroom and dragged his feet across the floor to the coat hooks by the door. Taking one last look towards Kamaka's room, he pulled on his heavy coat with some difficulty, his fingers catching on a hole in the lining. 'Awkward as always,' he thought to himself.

He jangled his keys in his pockets and gently pulled back the latch on the door.

"Where are you going, worm?" Kamaka hissed in the space behind him. He hadn't even heard her door open.

"I thought you were asleep." Mot answered without turning around. He could hear from her voice that she had just woken up.

"I was, but I'm glad you make such a horrid shuffling sound when you walk – just like a corpse." She approached him, her light footsteps belying her heaviness. "Now tell me, Mot – where are you going?"

Mot kept his hand at the latch, but turned ever so slightly so he could catch her with one eye. He didn't lie to her. "To Christmas' place."

Silence fell between them and Mot honestly couldn't be sure what she made of the situation until she appeared at his side, a sullen look colouring her thick features.

"I'm coming." She said.

Mot sighed and dropped his hand from the latch. He hung his head, struck by her stupidity – and her desperation. "You can't come. Someone will recognise you from the debate."

"They won't. That stinking whore merchant wasn't even there-"

Mot sucked in a breath and spoke slowly, his voice trembling ever so. "We can't take the risk. Christmas keeps a close eye on the Colonel. People say she has eyes and ears all over the-"

"They won't give it a second thought, Mot. They'll be too busy rutting and drinking – disgusting behaviour, vile city. They won't notice me."

"They might and that's enough. I'm going alone and can report back later-"

Kamaka grabbed his arm and tugged him round to face her. "I know what you're doing: you're going after him tonight, aren't you?"

He didn't answer her either way, only stared at the air between them. She was wrong: he had no intention of going after Mustang that night, but he didn't know how to say it without sounding instantly guilty. Kamaka had that effect on people. He couldn't possibly have predicted what happened next however.

She pulled in a frustrated breath, slammed a foot on the ground and squealed at him. "Oh – you liar! You greedy little toad! You would leave me here and take him for yourself! I did it! I put the array on him, I opened your eyes to him and here you leave me to watch your back as you walk into the future with him!"

Her outburst caught Mot totally off guard. Her eyes were wild: the same eyes he saw all that time ago when she would rant and rave around her house, cursing the elusive spirit of Wei Po-Yang.

He would have to be very careful. The absence of logic in the shallow saucers that were her eyes unnerved him terribly. This could very well be the end of him if he didn't play his cards right.

"No, Ahu – I'm not. I have no intention of doing that." He said steadily, though inside he was quaking. He fingered the array sewn into his left pocket and wondered even then if he should use it or if he would have a chance to. His array wasn't like hers or Mustang's – altering the chemicals of the body was not a quick process by any means. She would turn him to brittle bone before he could get anywhere near her.

"You're lying." She accused, her fat cheeks fluttering as she puffed and gasped through her paranoia.

Mot scuffed his shoe on the wooden floor and desperately sought for some way to calm the situation.

"I don't know how to convince you but we will _never_ succeed if we start behaving this way. We need to get closer to Mustang, but you will almost certainly be recognised if you go anywhere near Madame Christmas'. Your image was all over the newspapers and judging from what the locals say, you'll be lucky if Christmas reports you to the police. She has her own ways and means of dealing with things..."

"I'm an alchemist, Mot – I can handle one fat lump of a city woman. She is of no concern."

"You aren't thinking straight-" Mot said evenly, licking his quickly drying lips. "We'll spook Mustang if we touch his foster mother. He'll disappear inside a fortress of body guards and subterfuge, I promise you. We'll never get near him then. We'll never recover Po-Yang; our great harvest will never come. Think master – I beg you."

Kamaka considered this at length, her small eyes dancing in the dim light of the room. The cool of winter did nothing to stop the sweat that clung to the small of Mot's back. He stood stock still as he watched the vast, trembling woman deliberate his point. Finally, she spoke. "I need insurance."

Mot closed his eyes, frustration biting at him. When he opened them again, he saw that some of the fire had left her. It really was the case that reason's closest ally was a little time -

"I can give you none." He said, and locked his eyes with hers. A thought struck him – a terrifying but thrilling thought. "I can give you nothing but my word and shake on it."

Kamaka knew nothing of the array sewn into his left pocket and if he could force is alchemy quickly enough, her mind would be too muddled to activate one of her own small arrays tattooed to the tops of each palm. It was risky, all his teacher need do was touch her thumb to the soft flesh at the base of her middle finger and he was as good as dead, but ever since she had entered his life again, she had been little else than a threat to him _and _his plans. His intentions had been to set her up when they were close enough to their quarry to engage the final array, and to let one of Mustang's team finish her off while he transmuted the Colonel. But with her gall and irrationality, perhaps this was his chance to be rid of her, and judging by her increasing paranoia, to save himself. All he needed to do was nullify her, stop her from touching that array, until her mind was too exhausted to continue.

He offered his hand, willing his thin fingers to keep steady. If he showed any small sign of nervousness, he was sure she would suspect him.

Her eyes weighed on him enormously, and were it not for the sounds of the city beyond the door, he was certain she would hear the frantic drumming of his heart. The sound of another dog barking broke them from their stagnation and Kamaka's plump hand rose to meet his like a fat little bird trying to take flight, unsteady and graceless.

"I will kill you Mot, if I find that you are lying." She said, an atom of humour in her voice. It seemed then that she too was as relieved that they had broken their stand off. She needed his array to release Po-Yang after all and knew that if she killed him, she would have a hard time deciphering it.

Mot took her hand and shook it weakly, not wanting it to appear so affirming that she would sever the handshake instantly. As he spoke, he touched on the array secreted in his pocket and put his alchemy to work, forcing melatonin into her blood stream as quickly and as violently as he possibly could.

"Let me share something with you, teacher. I didn't tell you how I planned to get Mustang in the end, did I?" He smiled as he continued shaking lazily, noticing the first signs of his work in the woman's eyes. They clouded – ever so slightly, and her eyelids dropped just a little. She of course, was totally unaware; he had come a long way since his days under her tutelage. For once his apparent softness and eagerness to please worked in his favour, as she made no move to take her hand from his light, almost reluctant hold.

"No..." she drawled out, and it was hard to tell if the sound was suspicion or the beginnings of losing her speech. "You didn't."

"I've learned a lot since you taught me. I specialise now-"

"Get on with it." Kamaka swayed on her feet slightly as her shoulders sagged, almost imperceptibly, but Mot was watching the changes in her demeanour like a hawk.

Mot grinned deeply at the thrumming of his alchemy in his left pocket. He could feel the muscles in her hand slacken as the hormone rushed through her, dumbing her senses and slowing her mind. "The body releases about 0.004oz of melatonin a day. The hormone has several biological functions but the one we're concerned with is its promotion of, what could we say... sleepiness!"

Kamaka shuffled clumsily, and Mot had to spread his feet farther apart to keep them both from toppling over. There was a fleeting panic in her increasingly lidded eyes but it was soon muted by the dullness seeping into them. "We're – we are?" She mumbled.

"Everything will dull for him. The light will bleed from his world as his muscles go to sleep and his brain becomes swathed in cotton, do you see?" Mot asked, almost cheerfully.

"Mmm-hmm." She affirmed, as one of her knees gave out and they both sank to the floor.

He couldn't believe how quickly his talents were going to work on the powerful Bone Alchemist. He knew the exact process that was at work in her bloated body. Her heart rate would slow, her brain would become swamped with the otherwise harmless hormone and slowly, slowly her life would ebb from her as peacefully as falling asleep. She would never know what hit her.

"He won't even know what's happening until it's too late." He said quietly as she slumped against him, her breathing laboured.

But something shook her then. Whether it was her contact with the floor or his words, something clicked in Kamaka in that moment. She only had a few seconds of clarity, but that was all she needed.

A drunken roar tore from her throat as her eyes shot to the machinations of his left hand in his pocket. She activated her own array as her roaring muted into a distressed groan. Mot tried to wrench his hand free but her fingers held fast, despite her lethargy. Blue light shot from her fingers and enveloped Mot's own hand. As both energies collided, an eerie screeching filled the room and thin alchemic veins of light snapped at the air about them. That's when Mot felt it: the most terrible coldness clutching at his fingertips first, then running the length of them to bleed through to his hand. She was calcifying him where he knelt.

"No!" Mot screamed as the coldness was followed by the most searing pain as his nerves were transformed to a morbid webbing of chalk.

He scrambled on his knees and tried to slip away from her, but as his alchemy finally took her consciousness he found that in her confusion she had welded their clasped hands together. Where each hand met there was now a gruesome clump of bone-like matter.

He screamed again, horrified by the sight of what was once his right hand, now a snowy stump on the end of his arm. He gave the limb another violent tug.

The snapping was awful. He tore his eyes away from the mess as a giddy cry broke from him, but not so quick that he didn't see his ruined hand severed at the wrist and suspended in Kamaka's own. And there, at the end of his arm – the most sickening nothingness.

He saw Kamaka fall back, the alchemised hand cutting a graceful arc through the air. His own consciousness had fled from him by the time her body hit the floor.

* * *

With a dark grumble, Knox rested his glass on the polished brass of the bar top. He opened his fingers and let his tired eyes drift over the deep lines and folds of his palm. He saw there a small, pale hand and heard, between the chattering of voices and chinking of glasses, a few ragged breaths and the incoherent rambling of a foreign child. A shadow fell on him.

"You must be getting old, Knox. One glass enough these days?" A drawling voice asked from in front of him.

He didn't bother to look up, but tried to speak with some humour though his thoughts were hopelessly tangled. "Ha – there's no such thing as enough, Chris."

The patterned glass was lifted, he saw from the edge of his vision, only to be replaced with a fresh one a few moments later. He took a swig with his left hand and flexed the fingers of his right, finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from his wide palm and cracked fingers as though his very hand were a window to the past.

'That woman is my mother,' the boy's words washed across his thoughts with the same quiet, unstoppable force of gentle waves on a beach. Each time they swept over him, his stomach clenched and his face darkened – how fanciful and brazen coincidence was! It would have made his head hurt if it weren't for the near comic absurdity of it. Mustang – the son of the guileful, keen and irrepressible Fu Shi: it was a fluke of gargantuan proportions. Knox blew out a disbelieving laugh.

"Something funny?" Christmas said from some way down the bar.

Knox gave her a strange sideways look and pulled in an exaggerated breath before taking another drink. "No."

Christmas surveyed him for a moment before lumbering up to him, the furs about her neck rustling softly. She leant against the back bar and pulled a cigarette from her case. She offered him one but on a shake from his head, popped it into her mouth instead.

"You said he was okay. He's okay, yes?" She asked, and lit the cigarette delicately before blowing out a blue cloud of smoke. She tapped her temple with the smoke butt, her long red nails looking mean in the sultry glow of the scarlet shaded lights above them. "He's okay?"

Knox smiled crookedly at her oblique gesture. "Up there? Not for a long time but he's coping... just about – I think. That lanky friend of his is keeping a close eye on him. We spoke earlier and he's going to present Roy's debrief by proxy tomorrow morning. He's been interviewing the men all night." He swirled the single ice cube in his glass. "Today was a hard blow for the kid. That Fuery lad – his belly is in tatters."

Christmas took another drag, her eyes narrowed on the wearisome doctor, before she turned back lazily to the bar and poured a drink of her own.

"Coping doesn't come naturally to him, you know? Roy, that is – it never has." She spoke over the rim of her glass and with her face half hidden, the glinting of her eyes gave her a youthful carnivorousness. "He's _stubborn_. There's a difference."

"Oh?"

"Copers knuckle down and do what needs to be done: they move on, they _deal_ with things. That tough little treasure of his is a coper. She's a pragmatist."

"Hawkeye..." Knox said with a faint smile on his lips.

"Who else?" Christmas asked with some incredulity. "Roy though – my word – he's stubborn. Too stubborn to let people know he's frothing inside. When other kids were scolded or upset they would punch a wall or go and kick a football about, but him! Surely you remember how he used to stand there glaring at you, then take a big obstinate breath and saunter off as if nothing had happened? He was a torture to punish because it was always so bloody hard to know if you were getting through to him or not..."

Knox smiled fondly at that as Christmas continued speaking.

"I wish he _would_ punch a wall every now and then, God knows I do. He doesn't _deal,_ but moves on nonetheless and insists on carrying this big sack of soot and clutter with him wherever he goes. No doubt that little Sergeant boy has been firmly flung into that sack now."

Knox cocked his head, though his face remained blank. "You're hardly sympathetic."

Christmas choked out a laugh and drew knowingly on her cigarette. "And what place does sympathy have?"

"Hm..."

Christmas leant on her elbows in front of him, her ample bust resting neatly before his eyes. He met her scrutiny with a weak glower.

"You look awfully bothered..."

Knox considered her observation at length before speaking. "I don't want to worry you – I know I've told you he's safe, and he _is_ but-" his eyes drifted back to regard his hand, "I can't begin to tell you how very small he looked tonight."

* * *

Mustang was almost limping by the time he made it up his steps and away from his escort's car. Neither man was aware of the key Knox had slipped him as he climbed into the back seat, and so rather than make things too complicated, he told them to take him home rather than to Hawkeye's house. At least there he could fix himself into some semblance of presentability.

He closed the door softly behind him and made his way up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the one before it. As light flooded his room, he saw his solitary life thrown back at him: a wardrobe filled with suits and items of uniform, the scant spattering of necessary toiletries, the books haphazardly scattered about the floor and the smooth curve of his violin resting cockily against the far wall. He sighed and slid out of the oversized coat Knox had leant him, shivering as a draft pushed the thin material of his hospital gown against his chest. Peeling off the borrowed pyjama bottoms next, he stumbled clumsily against the bed cursing his tired legs and fuzzy head.

Correcting himself with a frustrated squaring of his shoulders, he stormed his way – as best he could – over to his wardrobe and surveyed its contents. Sick of the biting cold on his skin, he pulled out a pair of heavy cotton trousers, a thick white shirt and a tweed jacket. He dressed quickly, hopping from one foot to the other and blowing on his hands occasionally. There was a small mirror fixed to the inside of the wardrobe door, and having finished dressing, he noticed something odd about the reflection there. Just above his right ear, a considerable chunk of hair had been shaved clean off. To say the remaining patch was unpleasant was an understatement.

"They just _couldn't_ have taken off the grey bits. No, that would have been much too convenient..." He grumbled as he slammed the closet door shut and plucked a tidy brown flat cap from the adjacent shelf.

With hat on and bald patch hidden somewhat, he neatly packed his uniform into a light duffle bag and slouched his way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister as he went. He could not remember the last time he felt so tired and even contemplated, however briefly, not going to Hawkeye's house at all.

He knew though that she would be waiting for him and more than that – much more – the thought of being without her now, even for one night, drove a rod of ice into his stomach. But then his dream – that dream, hurtled back to him and stopped him in his tracks. He had to close his eyes to steady himself as some force snagged at the muscles in his legs and almost dropped him where he stood in his kitchen.

"Just a dream." He said, eyes still closed.

He rolled his shoulders and prepared himself to open his eyes again, half expecting to see the black serpent coiled before him. He cracked one eye open and laughed with childish relief when the ghouls of his own foul imaginings did not present themselves. Instead, he saw his own haggard reflection in the smooth glass of his back door. Even with his eyes shadowed somewhat by his cap, he looked dreadful. His cheeks were sunken and he found himself exploring one of the shadowed recesses with a cold finger.

"Thirty." He said and huffed out a breath, telling himself inwardly to 'suck it up.'

'Only losers feel sorry for themselves,' he reminded himself of the warning so familiar from his childhood: Christmas' unsympathetic appraisal of any sullen drunk who found his way to her bar.

He pulled open the back door and turned off the light, only then noticing that he must have forgotten to turn off his bedroom light in his haste to leave. He could see its pale luminescence filter down the stairs and daub the darkness with a subtle veil of yellow. He swivelled where he stood a few times, contemplating going back to turn it off but laziness won over in the end and he pulled the door shut behind him with a grunt.

He made his way down his garden path, the _click click_ of his well heeled brogues masking the sounds coming from the road in front of his house. He didn't hear the escorts that Christmas provided drive off, their vigil completed, nor did he hear the second car slow then stop opposite his front door, its occupants partaking in a vigil of their own.

* * *

He remembered vividly the white of her skin, and her slender fingers as they clutched about his lean shoulders. Her ears verged on being too pronounced but they gave her a certain wittiness as they pushed out between her straight black hair, the down on the soft shells catching the light as it streamed from a steamed-up window above them. Her top lip – full, soft, pink – was tipped upwards ever so slightly, as if an invisible finger was urging her to keep a secret with a gentle touch. Even when she scowled it seemed she was smiling – something about those eyes, dancing black and canny beneath the heavy curtain of her blunt, uneven fringe. What quirky, unsettling beauty that restive girl possessed.

The thick molar burned weirdly in the doctor's pocket. He hoped that he was right when he told Hawkeye that the tooth was probably pulled from someone unknown to Mustang. Unknown to _him._ He had kissed the mouth where that tooth had once belonged. He washed away the sickening lurch in his stomach with another thorough draft on his whiskey.

Remembering the photo and those hot nights in Shaoshan, and considering both Fu Shi and Roy Mustang's appearance and manner, _really_ considering them both, there was no doubt in Knox's mind that they were mother and son. But was he the father? Was he _his_ father?

He supposed he would never know. There was that certain ambiguity about Mustang's features that suggested his father was not from Xing but there again, how many Amestrians frequented Shaoshan and how great, _how great_ his mother's appetite.

Knox considered the aspects of his own son, his 'legitimate' son as perhaps he should now be known. He was taller than Mustang certainly, and much broader; he had his mother's eyes – eyes that held a wealth of innocence and therefore couldn't be more removed from the cunning of Mustang's own shrewd glances. Though perhaps there was something...

In his mind's eye, Knox pushed Mustang's hair back into the style worn by his son, added a generous few pounds and there, somewhere in between the lines, was the vaguest ghost of a resemblance.

He shook his head. It was impossible: the serendipity of such a thing defied all probability and flew in the face of every aspect of family either man had known. How, in a world governed by science and reason, could Knox legitimately look Mustang in the eye and tell him he was his father? It was ludicrous, undetermined and explosive.

Blood relation had brought Knox no closer to his own son, jettisoned as he was from his family's warmth – the embrace of his wife, the eager smile of his boy. At least with Mustang he had something: perhaps not love, not even affection maybe, but didn't they both continue to orbit each other despite the dark history they shared – maybe even because of it? No word seemed to fit them: the Xingese stray and the surly doctor, but somewhere hidden amongst the tangle of favours owed and common familiarity was something of a fierce devotion. He realised that, like a father – a _real_ father – he had been with Mustang almost every step of his life. Knox would be lying if he said the notion didn't bring a sting to his eyes.

His thoughts were interrupted by the scraping of a bar stool by his side. He turned damp eyes to see a wan man drag himself onto the stool to his left. The man rocked violently where he sat, and his right hand was thrust tightly into his left armpit. His face was slick with sweat, and beneath his lank hair, pained eyes stared outwards at nothing.

As far as Knox was concerned, he was off duty and so with a curl of his lip he turned his eyes back to the mirror at the back of the bar, unwillingly checking for elements of Mustang in the deep lines of his own tired face.

* * *

Hawkeye dozed fitfully since returning from the hospital. Every scraping, creaking or echoing woke her with a jolt as she imagined the sound of a key in the lock. She checked her clock and saw that the hour had just gone 2am. She knew that there was every chance that the Colonel still hadn't woken from his exhausted sleep but still, as the hours crept on and Central sank into the darkest of dark hours, she couldn't help but pine for him. It was silly really: only two nights ago they had slept quite comfortably in their separate houses, but now that she had shared him in the secret thrill of darkness she couldn't imagine a night without his lean body pressed against hers.

She stretched and as she did so, roused Hayate from his deep slumber. The dog looked at her with a level kind of indignation before yawning and tucking his nose back under his thick paws.

"Sorry-" Hawkeye mumbled and realising her own foolishness, checked the clock again. A minute had passed.

"Uh-" she growled loudly to nobody, frustration eating at her self-control. She twisted once onto her right side and then onto her left, provoking an occasional growl from the dog.

The silence of her room was deafening and she found herself yearning for the uneven breathing and solemn mutterings of her new found lover. She grabbed at a pillow and wrapped herself about it angrily before discarding it only seconds later, having found no solace in its lifeless mass.

She tried to cover her racing thoughts with banal images of her old house in the country, rolling fields of maize and thick clumps of stout trees, but still the Colonel managed to storm his way into her imaginings with characteristic insolence.

The shrill ringing of her phone made her jump and in her eagerness to reach it – 'it could be him, it could be him' – she fell onto the floor with a hard slap before she scrambled up again, hitching down her nightshirt as she went. She yanked up the phone with an overzealous, "Yes?"

It was Havoc.

'Oh no, oh no,' she thought as the seriousness of his tone cut through the chaos in the background. He called her 'Lieutenant' and him _'Colonel'_ – not Mustang, not chief...

"What is it?" She asked, already reaching for her chest of drawers and pulling out her uniform trousers and a simple black polo neck.

His news made sense to her only in the loosest capacity. Hot tears shot to her eyes as his words shook out of him, every one like a searing poker in her heart.

"I'll be there." She said, though where she found the words or the strength, she didn't know.

She slipped the phone onto its cradle and stared hard at the smooth black receiver for a moment, biting hard on her lip as she forced down the raging, billowing terror that threatened to consume her.

She pulled on her polo neck and screamed when, in her haste, her elbow got stuck. She jerked it off and pulled it on again more slowly, the effort of doing so massive. Then she reached for her holster and with a sharp call to Hayate raced down her stairs two at a time. She pulled on her jacket and coat, not trusting her fingers to button them up and threw back the door latch. She tugged the door open, bracing herself against the cold outside and the dread in her belly, but her heart stopped at the sight before her.

Mustang was standing wide eyed with a key raised, ready to push it into the lock.

She flung herself at him, her arms groping at his lapels, back, face, chest, shoulders, hips, before she pulled herself against his body in a suffocating embrace.

"Oh-" she moaned into his chest, and then drew in a huge breath to quell the awful-wonderful emotion swelling inside her.

She felt unsure hands rest on her back and then they too found their strength as Mustang pulled her closer to him. Her heart throbbed violently in her chest and beat a frantic rhythm against his own, and seconds later an agonised sob broke from her.

"It's okay." He said softly, his words seasoned with confusion and broken with fatigue.

Hawkeye sucked in another breath in an attempt to speak but failed as a second whinnying sigh broke from her. She was trying _so_ hard not to cry, but her body made no attempt to obey her. 'He's safe,' she told it.

He had to pry her from him, as she in her embarrassment tried to bury her face in the crook of his arm and the safety of his chest. He finally succeeded in looking at her, his own eyes flooded with concern as he saw the bandage wound about her neck and an angry purple mottling her nose. Then more terrible again, that boundless look of terror in her eyes – his mind jolted as the word 'monster' streaked across it like a comet.

"Riza – It's okay." He urged her, though he knew he was missing something. Surely Knox would have given her a vague opinion on his health, assuring her that he was well. Why then was she crying? Unless it wasn't about him at all – had she heard word about Fuery? The doctors would have called him first, then missing him would have contacted her as his second-in-command. Had something happened to the Sergeant since he left the hospital?

He swallowed thickly, worry driving at him as she wiped angrily at her nose and avoided meeting his eyes. "The Sergeant?" He asked.

Hawkeye's face froze for a second and it seemed in that time she recovered her strength, simply picked it up as though she had just dropped it at her feet for a few moments.

"Oh, Roy." She moaned gravely, and took his arm. Amber eyes, brimmed with tears but full of duty now, rose to meet his and he found himself backing off a step.

'Why is she making herself strong? Why is she bolstering herself for me?' He asked, trepidation seeping into his belly.

"Sir," her voice trembled faintly, "your house-"

He backed off another step, cocking his head as he did so – grim curiosity sharpening his gaze under the shadow of his cap.

"A rocket attack on your house – Havoc says it struck your bedroom, the building is ablaze, Roy. The whole top floor has been destroyed." She said with some force and clutched at his arm to stop his backward movement. She could see his eyes grow distant as panic took him. "Roy – Sir, I thought, when you didn't come... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – for me to react like that when it's _your_ house-"

"I have to go." He said, his voice barely present. It was like an echo of an echo of a voice.

"Sir, no-" Hawkeye said gently, losing then catching his arm again as he turned one way then the other. His eyes were blank and his jaw slack – she knew it was too much for him and she was ready for him buckle on the spot.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!" He yelled, and Hayate yipped back at him in response. "No!" He shouted again.

"Sir, please-"

He turned lost eyes to regard her with an eerie lack of presence and spoke as though he were dreaming. "I have to Hawkeye, I have to go. I must – I have to go back..."

He started walking off in the direction of his home, absently pulling her along with him.

"Sir, Roy – think Sir! What can you do? You'll collapse again, you haven't recovered, you're swaying where you stand, Sir, look at you. Think-"

"I _am_ thinking, Hawkeye." He said with sudden, startling clarity.

She didn't speak but instead brought herself level with him, resting a supportive hand on the small of his back.

"Seven years of research on how to overthrow the Fuhrer and rebuild the nation..." He stopped and looked at her, his eyes bright and unsteady. "If they go in there to put the fire out, if Investigations makes it there before we do – I'm done for."

It was cruel, Hawkeye thought as they stumbled through the streets of Central together, that her relief was bought at such a price.


	17. The Collapsed State

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist**

Thanks as always to **Southpaw** who is better than chocolate biscuits.

Thanks also to everyone who's been reading, fav'ing, alerting and reviewing. You're very kind and the comments really mean loads to me, so thanks. :) Thanks also to SneakyRuler (on the fullmetal-alchemist forum) who mentioned Quiet Crown.

Things are... heating up... yeo!

* * *

A black triangle silhouetted against a nimbus of oranges and yellows: that was Mustang's house – his home – as he saw it now. The stark branches of winter-stripped trees stretched out against the blazing backdrop like clawed hands trying to warm themselves against the flames. There were no sirens, at least none that could be heard over the roaring of the fire.

Bright flecks of lit matter drifted up and into the black of night; delicate fireflies fleeing the devouring inferno below. As the heat washed against his face for the second time that day, tightening his skin and drying his eyes, he made a silent inventory of the items held within those four walls. His bed, his violin, his early alchemical texts, a pressed yellow rose from his first dinner dance, an unopened bottle of his favourite whiskey, the chess set Hughes had bought him, a few treasured photographs. Photographs... _a_ photograph. The photograph of his mother in the pocket of Knox's coat. He had left it sprawled across his bed.

He threw back his head as if trying to shake the realisation from his mind and clenched his gloved hands. Hawkeye didn't miss the gesture but couldn't possibly have interpreted it for what it was – she knew nothing of the picture or the secret history it told.

"What will we do?" She asked, her voice carrying above the noise of the fire.

He noted the 'we' in her sentence with a sickened kind of satisfaction, and cast her a grim nod of acknowledgement. Although she didn't want to push him, she knew they needed to act. They had only been standing in Mustang's back garden for a matter of moments, but it already seemed like a lifetime to him. As yet, no one had dared brave the flames licking out from the side of the building to explore the gated back yard, and he was confident he could get the job done without anyone noticing. If only he could raise his fingers and snap...

He swayed and had to correct himself with an awkward stumble backwards. Hawkeye was there in a flash with her hands outstretched and caught him by both elbows. She couldn't help but think of a distraught animal as he pushed his back against her, subconsciously retreating from the ruination of his home. He trembled terribly and not for the first time that night, she half expected him to collapse at any second. He roared out his frustration, damned by his impotence. The sound rumbled through his back – why couldn't he snap?

There were any number of texts, that if found in his home would result in his being hauled up before a tribunal and questioned on his motives for possessing such provocative and incendiary books. About a fifth of his collection was banned and the rest may as well have been for how infamous it was. The military finding it was totally unacceptable – unthinkable and he, being who he was, wouldn't simply be detained or executed for treason. No, they would be far more imaginative in their chastisement, that much was certain.

Hawkeye released Mustang's elbow as he raised his hand to snap and save his conspiracy. Then he dropped it again. He bent forward, his head hanging before his knees and clutched at his hair. Hawkeye rubbed at his back, shocked by the deep shudders raking his body.

"I'm sorry." He said, his voice even weaker than it had been when he arrived at her house. It would probably be little more than a scratching whisper by the time morning came.

Hawkeye knelt beside him, taking his face in her hands and then rose, guiding him as she went. His eyes stayed focussed on the fire as he stood and Hawkeye felt a shiver course through her at the sight of the inferno reflected in those pools of black. She wondered briefly if that's how he saw himself, a man with fire branded into his vision.

"You have nothing to apologise for." She said, running her thumb across the elegant cut of his jaw.

He laughed darkly and bit his lip. She recognised that look from her youth: a city boy far from home and under the stern tutelage of her father had to have a will of steel to keep from crying sometimes. She recalled watching him from her place at the table as he stood and received the wrath of his Master. Her father would criticise his manner, clothes, looks, style, wit, upbringing, origins, drive and talents, and for the most part - the apprentice alchemist would receive the blows with good grace, saying only: "Yes, Master Hawkeye." But sometimes, when he stayed up too late the night before or when her father's words snagged on some tender place in his heart, she would see the shadows of upset drift across his countenance and he would bite hard on his lip – never shedding a tear. And neither did he now.

Rather, he raised a shaking left hand to tug timidly at the loose hair falling beneath her clip. His haunted eyes looked as though he were regarding her from a great distance, and through many, many veils. He licked his lips once and with cheerless passion drew her to him in a hard, desperate kiss. She relented, with stomach fluttering despite the grim circumstances, and raised herself on her toes to return the kiss with equal anguish. They grappled with each other, her hand clawing at his bruised jaw and his nose bumping against hers. She hissed with the flash of pain but either he didn't notice or he didn't seem to care. The fire raged on behind them as an upper section of the roof gave way with a crash and a whooshing plume of flames. The kiss was full of grunts and hisses, its tormented fervour matched only by the fire behind them. He finished their agonised embrace by crushing his lips harder against hers with such force that were it not for his hand at the nape of her neck, she would have fallen backwards. He raised his fingers and snapped.

The kitchen windows exploded as Mustang ignited the air about them. He sped the flames from the top floor into the bottom, engulfing every room as they passed: he had to be sure that _nothing_ remained. One unfortunate leftover from a text's outer cover could spell the end for him if it was found. So it all had to go, everything. He thought of how beautiful his piano must look as it burned.

"Roy?" Hawkeye asked, seeing Mustang bite down on his lip again. A thin string of muscle pulsed in his jaw. "Sir? Roy?" She nudged him but the action garnered no response.

Dark smoke billowed upwards from the flaming building like great black serpents. He glanced down at the salamander etched onto one of his gloves and his stomach gave a violent jolt, the sensation like someone tugging a rope free of it. He observed the thick, black columns and swiped angrily at his cheek when he felt a papery tongue quiver against it – impossible as the sensation was. His dream surged back to him with unimaginable force and almost had him doubling over. He grabbed at his head, fingers pushed into one throbbing temple and thumb pushed into the other, and emitted a low, ragged moan.

"Sir!" Hawkeye called and held each of his arms with her own strong, steady hands.

"You see? This is exactly what I'm talking ab-" Mustang cut himself short, realising his error. _Had_ he talked about it? He hadn't - not at all. He hadn't told anyone about the dream – couldn't, in fact, because of Hawkeye's presence in it. When did his dreams start to make a march on his reality?

"Talking about what? I don't understand-" Hawkeye tried to catch his eye but couldn't as he turned his head one way, then the other.

"Never mind." He said but his voice broke totally so he had to cough and repeat himself. "Never mind." Even to his own ears he sounded childish.

Hawkeye paused, realising her attempts to make eye contact were futile, and took a step back. From her place in front of him, she could see the whites of his eyes as he stared at the damp grass beside him.

"This is..." she started, but her words dried up. She had to gather herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, before she could start again. They had to be honest with each other - that much she knew. "This is frightening me, Roy." She breathed deeply. "You are... frightening me. I'm frightened for you."

He didn't answer for a long time, but she was accustomed to these moments of his quiet considerations. Finally, he raised his eyes to hers and there was something in them that froze her heart. A terrible sadness that stretched for miles.

"What if you were in there, Riza? What if you were there in my bed when they attacked? What would – what _could _I have done? A rocket – for God's sake there would be nothing left of you."

Hawkeye squeezed his arm with force. "And what would I have done, if you had been in there?"

His eyes drifted. "You would have survived. You would have moved forward, it is the only direction we humans _can_ go. It's my home, I would be in my proper place." His dark eyes shot back to her. "You're collateral."

Hawkeye choked out a laugh and looked off to the side, half expecting to find some explanation there. Collateral? How could he possibly fail to understand her so greatly? She wasn't angry, or sad – but an emotion unknown to her curled around her throat and stole her breath from her.

"You're wrong." It was all she could muster.

Mustang smiled awkwardly and caught her in a fragile, shy embrace. "I know." He whispered. He did know – he knew in his heart for the longest time that if anything happened to him, her own fate was inevitable. This unspoken truth had never been tested until that moment and it was enough to paralyse him.

He kissed her forehead and she could hear his breath flutter with distress as it left his mouth. He pressed the side of his head to hers and spoke quietly. His words sounded in her mind like her very own thoughts.

"I am trying very hard to be good and honest, to be decent to you – to love you in practice as dutifully as I have done in my own heart." He took a deep breath. "I don't think I'm very well... in my mind; I think that something may have come loose." The words came as though they were just occurring to him as he spoke, his voice tentative and unsteady. "And right now there is a poison in me that wants to tell you to scram, to chase you away like a stray dog and humiliate you – punish you for being here with me." He took her hands and held them against his chest, their fingers clasped between both their hearts. "That poison - it's here and it's awful, and very real." He brought his mouth closer to her ear and she felt him flinch when a couple of shouts carried over the noise of the fire. "I'm asking you to trust me to be without you tonight. I can't explain why but to be close to you now is scaring me. I feel..." He pulled back and looked at her, seemingly considering what this poison could mean to her. "...dangerous."

He bit his lip.

Hawkeye was stock-still while he spoke, but when he finished she loosened her hands from his grasp, then enclosed his shaking fingers with her own. His recent catastrophes had made rubble of the walls he built around himself. Her feelings for him – feelings that made shadows of what most called love – only deepened with his words. She could not let him be alone that night, neither could she neglect his candid plea.

"Where will you go?" She asked.

"Christmas has a small outlet nine or ten blocks from here. I'll ask one of her guys to bring me to her place. You can tell the men that you've made contact with my mother and I've been recuperating at her house since leaving the hospital – tell them I didn't want to cascade the information to my unit because of the security threat. If we keep those in the know to a minimum, it will let me lay low for tonight and find safe accommodation – with no risk to the Madam – before tomorrow night."

Hawkeye weighed the risks against his solemn request. As though reading her thoughts, Mustang shifted uncomfortably.

"Please – Riza. Please."

She acquiesced despite her fears and they parted with a kiss.

Mustang had only covered three blocks when he realised that he could think of nothing worse than making small talk with his mother's heavies. So relishing the coolness that the night air offered, he made a sharp left and started towards the centre of town. He coughed messily when he thought of what Hawkeye would make of his change of heart.

As he walked, he tried to clear his head of all thought but struggled in the hollow silence of the night. Memories came to him unbidden and a few times he had to stop and prop himself against a lamppost. They swept into his vision without so much as an 'excuse me' and stayed there for a moment before disappearing again, as if blown by a strong gust of wind. Faces and smells from Ishbal, Ed's fierce eyes as he sat trapped in his wheelchair, the smooth slope of his Lieutenant's side and the glistening scar that ornamented her back: the scar that he put there. Indeed, what was her back but a canvas on which the men in her life had painted their own prideful exploits?

That thought took the wind from his lungs. He dug the heels of his hands into his tired eyes as the memory from his garden came back to him. What had her face looked like? What emotion had she forced into hiding behind those extraordinary eyes of hers?

He didn't _have_ to guess. She had said it plainly, hadn't she? She was frightened. Even in their tightest spots, she had never once spoken of her own fears or discomforts, but she had done so that night. His stupidity could have floored him. She wanted him with her, under her roof and in her arms, as much as he wanted to be there himself – but being more courageous than he was, she was willing to take the risks to make it happen. There was every chance he would arrive at her home before she did, but even then he would wait for her as faithfully as she would for him. He would be there to welcome and comfort, to thank her for holding him up when he lost the strength to stand alone. With his heart pounding and his body aching, he pulled his cap low on his forehead, shifted his kit bag on his shoulder and made his way back towards her house.

* * *

Of their circle, Hawkeye found only Hughes and Havoc at the front of the house. She wasted no time in telling them that having phoned Madame Christmas immediately, she discovered that the Colonel was safe and well. Both men looked at her with ash blackened faces and both had white streaks where they had swiped at tearful eyes. Fire fighters and military policemen thronged around the inferno, the house now totally engulfed in flame. They all wore the same expression, one of speculation and excitement. A few men were giving commentary to the journalists gathered there and posed for photographs against the irony that was now the Flame Alchemist's home. Hughes raged at the journalists, chasing them away like a gang of bratty teenagers while Havoc dragged hungrily on what must have been his twentieth cigarette of the night.

"Hey Hawkeye -" The blond Lieutenant said, his words disrupted somewhat by the cigarette.

Hawkeye wiped her sweating palms on the side of her trousers and looked at him.

"What's this all about?" He asked, not looking at her, but rather keeping his eyes fixed on Hughes as he berated the military police for their lack of professionalism.

"What do you mean?" Hawkeye asked back, guessing what the man was driving at but giving nothing away.

He turned to her with the hint of anger in his uncannily blue eyes. "Do me a favour and stop the bullshitting, huh?"

Hawkeye's stomach lurched but she fought to keep her cool.

Havoc looked at Hughes as he pointed his finger in a journalist's face, then back to her. "I know the three of you have your inner circle but don't forget you aren't the only ones who give a shit about the Colonel." He exhaled sharply. "Maybe if we all knew a little more we could stop crap like this from happening in the first place. We aren't a bunch of idiots."

Hawkeye opened her mouth in a neat little 'o' before snapping it shut. He had every right to be angry, with her and with Mustang. He was right, of course, that only the most necessary information was ever filtered down, and with Mustang being the taciturn man he was, the information was hardly bountiful to begin with. If Mustang had perished in the fire that night, none of them would have truly known why. Or why, for that matter, Fuery was on the brink of death having taken a bullet in the man's stead. The men knew nothing of Wei Po-Yang or Izumi Curtis' warning. They were trying to keep their eyes peeled even though the room was dark.

"I'm sorry." Hawkeye said quietly, and Havoc mistook her apology as a sign that she wouldn't, or perhaps couldn't, continue. He smirked darkly and shook his head.

Hawkeye pushed on, her voice low and quick and steady. "I'm sorry that we've been secretive, that we've kept you in the dark. I'm sorry if our closed lips have made you feel as though you couldn't be trusted or weren't respected. The truth is, we don't know much ourselves. This all began around the Colonel's birthday and we've been on the back foot ever since. I believe even the Colonel is lost, even he doesn't have all the facts, and what little he does have he wants to keep to himself. I don't think it's that he doesn't trust us and that we don't trust the rest of you. I think it's more that, anything we _do _say is just... guessing."

Havoc nodded grimly. He knew Hawkeye wasn't like Mustang in the slightest, that her words weren't meant to distract or misleadingly protect. Whatever she said, he could be certain that it was the truth.

"Thanks." He said, and then with an awkward grunt, scuffed his boot on the ground. "I'm sorry for swearing at you."

Hawkeye offered a small smile. "I expect nothing less."

They settled into a companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. As trained snipers, they were wont to entertain themselves with their own stillness, outwardly static but ready to act in a split second. Their reverie was only broken when Hughes approached, his face red beneath the soot.

"Lousy reporters – they practically wept when I told them the Colonel was still in the hospital and nowhere near the fire. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them launched the damn rocket themselves." He looked at Hawkeye and puffed out his cheeks before releasing the air slowly. "How are you?"

Hawkeye simply nodded.

"Yeah." Hughes agreed with whatever silent sentiment he saw in her response. He cleared his throat and studied her closely. "Listen Riza, you look absolutely exhausted. Why don't you head on home and I'll check in with you in the morning?"

Hawkeye looked at the house, at Havoc then back to Hughes. She pushed her short fringe back from her slick forehead. "The debrief-"

"Don't worry about it. I spoke with Dr Knox – he's already told the brass that Roy won't be in tomorrow. They're fine with me debriefing by proxy. I've already spoken with the men and everyone's been pretty clear about what happened at the sewage plant. HQ just asked that you check in with them before close of play tomorrow to submit your account of the mission. How does that sound?"

Havoc shrugged at Hawkeye and lit up his next cigarette with the butt of the last one before flicking the stub onto the pavement. It made a bright arc as it fell and three pairs of heavy eyes followed it to watch it bounce and splinter on the frosted pavement.

Hawkeye nodded again and sighed. With everything that had happened, it occurred to her that they were on the crest of a terrible wave, and they hadn't even realised they were swimming. They needed to be tighter, to cling together in the uncertain waters. "We need to talk – all of us – with the Colonel. Maybe not tomorrow but soon."

She felt Havoc's eyes on her and continued with a determined whisper. "I can't help but feel we're on the cusp of something even more awful – it's right at our door."

Both men affirmed her thoughts with a grunt. They were accustomed to handling outside threats and liabilities, and well versed in looking out – however obliquely – for the Elrics, but this situation was utterly new to them. Nothing had ever made a stab at the very heart of their unit before. They all knew that Mustang would be infuriated if he knew of their fears, but take away their Colonel and the whole unit would crumble. Not one of them could carry on the torch with the same fervour and conviction as him. He was at the top of their little pyramid, but somehow, he was also its foundation. That was their Colonel: a paradox from head to heel.

The trio said perfunctory good byes, knowing it was really only a matter of a few small hours before they would see each other again.

Hawkeye walked with her head down, hypnotised by the steady tapping of her boots on concrete. How, in less than a week, they had come to the point where they almost lost their Colonel not once, but twice was beyond her. She had no doubt that they were the most solid outfit in the whole of the military, but somehow a toxic fluid had managed to seep into what scarce fissures and cracks there were. As loathe as she was to admit it, the Colonel seemed to be the most obvious inlet. He wasn't well in his mind, he had said. Something had come loose.

She was only a block away from her home when she heard someone call out to her. Her hand shot to her revolver. There was laughter.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

Hawkeye turned towards the voice and was shocked to see Quentin Vultee standing behind her across the street. He was dressed in a long winter coat and beside him panted a huge, white dog.

"Quentin!" She called, laughing out her relief.

The ex-soldier closed the space between them in four or five long strides, the massive animal trotting proudly by his side.

"This is a very unsociable hour for such a conscientious soldier..." He smiled.

Hawkeye quirked a brow at him. "I could say the same about you."

The blond man chuckled and patted his dog. "It's my hip. Cold nights like this – it aches like crazy and once I'm awake, well, it's hard to turn back over. Besides, Pistol here likes a good late night stroll."

"Pistol?" Hawkeye echoed and bent to pat the dog in turn. "He? She?"

"She – Pistol's the only lady in my life."

Hawkeye rose to face him, his comment stirring something like nervousness in her belly. "I see."

Her relationship with the tall veteran seemed like a thousand years ago, but still his words seemed full of spark and tension. He was just about the most direct, good willed man she had ever encountered but yet she couldn't help but feel he had unfinished business from the Colonel's party. The Colonel...

"Are you okay?" He asked, concern pressing on his features.

That question. What was it about that question? It had some mysterious power that no matter how well tethered one's emotions were, the words cut the cords of restraint and set them floating free. Hawkeye cast her eyes upwards in an attempt to control herself.

Vultee took her arm and considered her with his clear, deep eyes. "Hey-" He said quietly, then again, "Hey – you okay?"

Hawkeye shook her head as a fat tear breached her guard and cut a line down her cheek. She wiped at it angrily and cursed the thick lump in her throat. That damned question...

"My God, Riza, what happened?" He asked, taking her other arm and crouching slightly to address her levelly.

Hawkeye pressed her lips together, clutching desperately for her emotions as they ran from her. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the helpless feeling that ate at her. Seeing the Colonel collapse by the silo, holding his limp hand in the hospital bed; praying, actually _praying_ that Fuery wouldn't die then battling her guilt when she realised that really, the life she was begging for was the Colonel's and not the Sergeant's at all. If Fuery died she was sure Mustang would be submerged. That realisation was awful – he was inextricably her priority in every particle of her and she was losing him.

She closed her eyes as two more thick tears streaked her face and gasped against wool when strong arms encircled her.

"Hey, hey, hey-" Vultee was saying into her hair. The dog whined beside them.

"The Colonel-" She choked out. "His house, everything – we're losing grip-"

Her voice sounded absolutely alien to her and the words only made a vague sense as she lost herself in her worry and grief.

Vultee started rocking her slightly, readjusting his chin on her head and squeezing her tighter. He breathed deeply, moved by the smell of smoke in her hair. He needed no better symbol that this woman belonged to Mustang, and to him alone.

Neither of them noticed the figure round the corner and stop dead.

* * *

Mustang's feet pounded out a frantic, uneven rhythm. He was only distantly aware that he was muttering as he walked, and couldn't be sure if he was speaking words or nonsense. He screwed his eyes shut as the memory of them together lanced across his vision. Two blond, light beings: strong and good and direct and grounded and honest and faithful and loved and respected and everything, _everything _that he was not. He was shadow and smoke, a subterranean being dragged to the surface by chance and ambition. With gloves still on, his alchemy flared at his fingertips and occasionally he clicked his fingers to discharge whatever dark energy lingered there.

"Quentin Vultee?" His voice broke from him like a crazed horse from its starting gate. "Quentin f-fucking Vultee!"

Small white clouds accompanied his words as they left his lips, only to be swallowed up by the darkness within seconds. He looked at the lamps above him, he looked at the squat shadow he cast, he looked at the houses – each containing lovers, families, children: all dreaming, all loved and cherished. Maybe some of the husbands were unfaithful, maybe some of the children were brats and maybe some of the wives were proud, but at the heart of them, weren't they mostly innocent? Weren't their hands clean and hearts light?

He chewed on his scream, forcing it down his throat like grizzle. The two of them. His Lieutenant, his Riza: she was his.

"She's mine!"

He had her. He finally had her but really, when he thought about it – what did he ever really have? What in his lifetime could he call his own? Even his name was like a cloak wrapped about his shoulders – part of him for his wearing of it, and yet not.

He knew, of course, that Hawkeye betraying him was impossible. In every portion of his flesh, he knew that Hawkeye was bigger than temptation and purer than lies. What struck him when he saw them standing together, coupled as one, was the absolute integrity of them. Quentin Vultee was the life from which Hawkeye was excluded, purely by her association with him. 'You are... frightening me,' was what she said.

He felt something shift in his stomach and stumbled slightly from the sensation before hitting his knees. He scrambled to his feet and staggered for a few steps then collapsed again. He imagined a snake uncoiling itself in his insides as his belly lurched and surged. He felt that same papery tongue against his cheek again and swiped at it, despite knowing that it couldn't possibly be real.

He, a devil – a spectre, had lured a woman of flesh and blood into his arms and dared to fancy a life with her. It was unacceptable and faced with the sheer virtue of Vultee, his worth shrank like a shadow in the noon sun.

He climbed to his feet and flinched as a bead of sweat ran behind his ear. He took one unsteady step, then another, then another and soon he was beating out a frenzied pace as he marched towards his counterfeit home and his counterfeit mother.

Since his birthday, the rug had been thoroughly pulled from under his feet, or rather, it was like something had snagged on a loose thread and was undoing the rug bit by bit.

Christmas' door was upon him before he even realised it and he pushed through it, shielding his eyes from the dampened lights of the lounge. Someone greeted him and clutched his arm. He threw them off with a curse.

"Hey!"

Chris Mustang and Knox looked up from the bar at the sound of one of the girls crying out in alarm. There seemed to be a bit of a scuffle before a figure broke through the patrons. It took Chris a full three seconds to realise that the figure was her son. He shot past them, turning both heads at the bar: Knox and the strange, quiet gentleman.

"Come back here." Chris demanded incredulously.

Mustang ignored her and started up the stairs.

"You!" She called, authority bolstering her husky voice. "You! Stop – right – there."

Mustang planted one foot on the next step and froze. Knox couldn't see his face, but imagined that if he placed his hands to the alchemist's back, he would feel heat rising from it.

Chris moved out from behind the bar, ignorant of the onlookers and the wetted, keen eyes of the odd man sitting quietly on the bar stool.

"You will behave under my roof, child." She ordered.

Mustang sighed whimsically, removing his cap and looking up briefly before he turned to face them. Knox sobered at the sight of the young man – something in his eyes was _off_, really off.

The alchemist plodded heavily down the steps, talking in a low tone as he went. "Yes – _your_ house, _your_ name, _your_ language-"

"What are you talking-?"

"Did you bring anything I could call my own back from Xing or was your luggage too packed full of silks?"

Chris clenched her fist and quashed her anger with a taunting smirk. She wouldn't be goaded by a boy she had raised herself, no matter how out of sorts he seemed.

"I brought you, didn't I?" She asked, her eyes boring into him.

Knox raised himself from the stool noticing, if fleetingly, the way the man beside him stared at Mustang.

"You did." He sang out, though his voice was weakening steadily. "A fine doll for your friends to fawn over."

Chris took a step towards him, brushing off Knox's hand at her elbow. "You watch it." She growled. "There are customers here trying to enjoy their night."

Mustang removed his gloves with a few violent tugs. "Yes – we must look after the customers. What will everybody _think_? My – how terrible it must have been to have the eyes of Central on you and your narrow-eyed son. Have you ever taken anyone under this roof whose body you couldn't sell?"

Knox stepped between them, placing his hand on Chris' shoulder but she raised herself to speak over him.

"Don't sling those daggers at me – you'll not draw blood out of this woman. How much have you had to drink?"

"How much, son?" Knox repeated, and grimaced at the use of the otherwise meaningless term of endearment.

"Nothing." Mustang coughed out. "I've taken nothing. And you-" he glared at Knox. "Don't call me that... I'm nobody's son." He narrowed his eyes, black specks against bloodshot white. "And you let them shave off a patch of my hair, you mad old bastard."

With that, he turned towards the stairs but Chris made a lunge for him and grabbed him by the wrist. He spun, one hand raised in the air.

The room gasped as one as they saw the alchemist's hand cut through the air, only to stop a bare inch from Chris' face. She, for her part, did not flinch.

Mustang shook his head, his eyes scared and wild. He only managed to stagger back a few steps before two of Chris' security men took him by both arms and forced him through a door into a back room. Knox and Chris followed, leaving Mot alone at the bar, listening to the mumbles of curious patrons and the distressed sobbing of one of the girls.

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, it seemed as though his scheming had been more efficacious than he had thought possible. Clearly, Mustang's will was hanging by a thread if he was that close to striking his own mother in front of a room full of her loyal patrons. With the Colonel in that state, Mot was sure his array would work perfectly. Mustang may even welcome the unburdening of his life. But then, seeing the great Flame Alchemist, and object of his admiration, in such a pitiful and volatile state had forced a barb into Mot's heart. The familiar urge to scream shot up his throat and he clasped his remaining left hand to his mouth to stop it from shattering the babbling conversations behind him. That's when his eyes caught on something.

A white glove, like the corpse of a small animal, lay crumpled on the floor. Mot tittered as he struggled from his stool and snatched it up.

* * *

Mustang could hear voices but they seemed to be coming from high, high above him. It was as though he was sitting at the bottom of a very deep well, and could view the world only through a tiny circle at the top, about the size of a coin.

A face swam into his vision. The voice said something about shock and Mustang laughed. Wouldn't the voice be shocked too if it found itself at the bottom of a well without any explanation?

Another face appeared then, and Mustang recognised dully the scent of expensive perfume and lips daubed with rouge.

"Hit him." The rouge lips said.

Knox balked. "What?"

"Hit him." Chris said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "Isn't that how these things are usually recovered?"

Knox looked at Mustang's unfocussed eyes and grimaced at the deep purple of his jaw from where Lockheed had swung at him. "How can you be so calm?"

Chris shrugged. "I can only focus on solutions, Knox. When my son returns from whatever world he's lost on, then I'll suffer this I'm sure." She moved off to fix them a drink.

Knox nodded grimly and took Mustang by the shoulders. Dull eyes struggled to meet his own. "Hey kid – your mother's going to have me thump you if you don't pull it together. I was a boxer at university, so – you know, let's try to avoid that."

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile as Mustang licked his lips and fought to focus.

"Seriously – you're just a runt. I could smash you with one blow – then what would you do? No one wants a guy with a messed up face. Not even blind girls, they'd hear everyone laughing when you lunched out-"

"Can you help me up?" Mustang whispered, his black eyes focussing before losing their centre again. "I- is there a rope? I think there's something in here with me..."

Knox shook his head confusedly and took a glass of whiskey from Chris, placing it in Mustang's hand at her request. He felt the younger man's pulse before replacing his hand on his shoulder. His heart was racing.

"In where, kid?"

"In the _hole_." Mustang whined. "It's so dark."

"The hole?" He asked.

Mustang's face fell and his eyes aimed at something between himself and the floor. "The thing."

Knox looked at Chris who appeared lost at the remark, then raised Mustang's hand to his lips, guiding the amber liquid into his mouth. He swallowed thickly, then tilted the glass back and polished it off. A little dribbled down his chin.

What had snapped, Knox wondered, between the time he helped Mustang into the car to Hawkeye's and now? The ever collected Colonel Mustang now sat before him like every other shellshocked soldier – lost and delirious, a shadow of himself, gripped by the spectres of his past. He supposed, sadly, that it was only a matter of time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of a phone. Mustang perked up at the sound and made to stand but Knox's strong hands fixed him in place. "Shhh-" he cooed.

"Lieutenant-" Mustang muttered, his panic swathed by his fatigue and confusion.

In the background, Chris could be heard saying 'I see, I see.' After a while she joined Knox at his side.

"Well," she said resolutely, "at least we know it's something."

Knox grunted his curiosity at her.

"That was Hawkeye. His house was attacked. Rocket – straight at his window. There's nothing left of the place."

"Hawkeye?" Mustang asked and tried to stand again. Knox forced him back down, gently.

The doctor's shock was palpable and although Chris appeared to be taking the news in her stride, the thin sheen of sweat on her top lip gave her away. Chris Mustang _did not_ sweat.

"We should get him to bed." The woman said after a time.

Knox was more than familiar with the 'Mustang family trait' of selective hearing and so wasn't surprised when the alchemist stood up suddenly with a sharp, 'no.'

"This could be difficult." The doctor said as he tried to contain weak attempts at escape.

Chris merely grimaced and popped a cigarette into her mouth, lighting it with a slightly trembling hand. "No – he'll be out cold soon."

"You _drugged_ him!" Both men spoke as one, the younger man substituting 'me' for 'him'.

Chris took a heavy drag. "Yeap." She spoke on her exhalation.

In less than a minute, Mustang fell limply back to his seat, eyes rolling in his head. His pale skin glistened with cold sweat but to give Chris her credit, she managed to slow his racing heartbeat.

Her men, together with Knox, hoisted the Colonel and carried him – coffin like – up the back stairs to his old room. He mumbled feverishly as they went. Both Knox and Chris shrank at what few words they heard: charred, snake, dead, fault, sorry and three times, Fuery.

Having laid her son out on his old, single bed, Chris chased the others from the room. Even Knox, who lingered at the doorway before closing the door, a regretful pall to his face.

She cleared her throat and pushed back her adopted son's heavy fringe. His eyelids fluttered as he seized at his fleeing consciousness, and the robust woman had to rescue her breath when she saw clearly the dark shadows under his eyes. Knox was right, out of uniform and in his exhausted state, he did look small. But not young. He looked worn and haggard, like a once fine pair of shoes that had been left in a dark, damp closet too long.

"Nobody's son - tch." Chris scorned, licking her thumb and using it to wipe a dark smudge from Mustang's cheek.

He mumbled something in return, swiping limply at her hand long after she had taken it back.

Chris shivered and fixed the blanket about him. She placed a kiss to his forehead and rose, something like an upside down smirk shaping her mouth.

Walking away from the bed, she had her hand on the doorknob when a small, tattered voice called to her. He would be lucky if he could even produce a whisper come the morning.

"Madame-" He said dreamily.

Chris paused, waiting to see if he was merely dreaming or genuinely calling her.

"Madame-" He said again, with a little more urgency.

She turned and saw two heavily lidded, coal black eyes glinting at her through the dark.

"Yes son?" She asked, and could have sworn she heard upset in her voice.

"What's my name?" He slurred quietly.

Chris thought for a moment before responding. "Well, what does everyone call you?"

She smiled when she heard a groan emanate from the darkness. "No – what name was I _born_ with?"

Again, Chris chewed on the question before answering. "No one is born with a name – it's given to them by the people who love them."

A dark, sleepy chuckle followed. "Straight answer, impossible with..." He yawned. "You..."

Chris smiled and wandered back to the bed. She lowered herself tiredly to the covers and met his eyes, surprised to see some scant alertness there despite the potent dose of drugs.

She swept her hand through his hair and rested it there as she considered carefully what she was about to say. "I've never told you this and a big part of me hopes you don't remember in the morning. Why – I can't be sure. I suppose I like keeping people in the dark sometimes. But when we first met, you misheard my name. Chris _Must_-ang, and Christ_mas_, you see? You didn't let me finish introducing myself and so you thought my name was Christmas."

She could see Mustang was fighting a losing battle to stay awake but felt suddenly that she must continue, that he must hear and that this moment was very, very important.

"So I suppose you could say you named me." She remembered the laughter of her friends as she retold the story, bouncing the small, uncanny boy on her lap. She wiped a tear from her eye and noted Mustang's creased brow at her emotion – even in his delirious state he knew he was seeing a once in a lifetime event, a sort of eclipse. "You gave me my name, and I gave you yours. One for one," she smiled slyly, "I believe you alchemists are familiar with the principle..."

She carried on stroking his jet black hair, shedding a solitary tear as his eyes finally closed – the trace of a smirk on his lips.

* * *

cheers for now chaps x


	18. The Price of Admission

**Disclaimer: **I don't own FMA, or MAF or AMF...

I come to you with my tail between my legs :( Sorry for the delay in updating folks, poor show on my part...

Thanks as always to everyone who has taken the time to fav, alert and read; especial thanks to you chaps who have taken the time to review: it genuinely puts a smile on my face/helps me appraise the piece.

**ART: **For some amazing artwork, please visit my profile to follow the links to **Fudfoofle **and **hand-made-city's** work. They are truly talented folk and my thanks go to them for creating something so beautiful from this.

Ch 19 is almost complete and it's fairly action packed, so I promise it'll be up in better time :)

For info, I've set up a community for the fics I find particularly well written and compelling. It's called Superior Works, so have a wee look if you're interested. Check out Thousand Sunny Lyon's 'Paradigm Shift': a story that has me glued to my inbox on the prowl for an update! Is good, is good!

Anyway, tally ho! Yeo!

* * *

"Daddy-" Elysia skipped clumsily towards her father as he pulled his thick coat about his shoulders.

Hughes fixed his lapels, then with hands placed on his knees, bent to smile at his daughter. "Yes sweetie?"

"Do you _have _to go?" She asked, twirling her foot delicately in front of her. She _looked_ full of innocence, but Hughes could see the cogs in her head turning.

"Hmmm..." He mocked consideration, stroking his chin. "Yeap, 'fraid so."

"Ugh!" The little girl groused and stamped each foot twice before placing her hands squarely on her hips. Where she had learned to sass so effectively, Hughes couldn't be sure. Her face changed to one of flagrant connivance. "But..." she drew out the word, "today is Thursday so why don't you just borrow Sunday's day off for today and then go into work on Sunday?"

Hughes scooped his daughter up and held her aloft as he spoke to her. "You're so clever!"

Elysia responded with a toothy grin.

"But I have to go. I have to, honey." He placed her back on her feet, but she kept hold of three of his fingers with her chubby hand.

"_Why _do you have to go? Why Daddy?"

"Uncle Roy needs me. You wouldn't want me to leave Roy alone just so I could play with you, would you?"

"Yeap!"

Hughes made a face, exaggerating his disappointment. "Elysia baby, that's not very nice."

The girl held tighter to her father's fingers and made a disgruntled noise that sounded like she was losing her resolve and not liking it one bit. "But Uncle Roy is old and even a little bit tall and can help himself. What's he need your help for? He has the lady."

Hughes laughed at the observation. Even Elysia in her innocence acknowledged Hawkeye's role in Mustang's life. He thought about how best to explain the predicament to his child.

"Well, Roy fell into a big hole last night and he needs some help. Since I'm his best friend, I know the best way out. You see? If I didn't go, Roy would be stuck in the hole all alone and that would make Daddy really, really, really super sad."

Elysia chewed over Hughes' explanation, seemingly taking great care to weigh up her priority to play against the prospect of Mustang being stuck in a hole all alone. In the end, it was the 'super sad' that tipped the outcome.

"Okay." She said finally. "You can go Daddy. Say 'hi' to Uncle Roy and tell him, 'look where you're going, silly Roy!'"

Hughes kissed her forehead, said his good byes and left the house wishing things were that simple.

* * *

Hawkeye's morning ghosted past her, fog-like and dissolving. Once more she woke alone, an empty pillow where a dark head should be. She breakfasted in the solemn silence of her small kitchen with Hayate napping restlessly by her feet, and by the time 10 o'clock rolled around she was adding the finishing touches to her succinct report for the panel.

It was as detached a creation as she could muster, avoiding all aspects of her own person and detailing only what was necessary. It was not her job to convince the panel of the Colonel's heroics, but rather to throw a damp cloth over the embers of his intervention. She reminded herself throughout her composition, of the tired, jaded eyes of senior staffers and their inherent, contradictory spite for her commander. On the one hand he was their golden boy while on the other, the eager prince ready to snatch his father's crown. They would be on the lookout for any sign of partiality from her and she was loathe to give it to them. No, her report would be void of any acts of theatrical alchemy, assaults by Lockheed or disobedience by Mustang. They would read the Colonel as coolly and as aloofly as they always did; her report, a screen against his frantic daring. Running her eye over the document for the third time, he presented as being utterly despicable in his reticence to show heart – it was perfect.

When gathering information from Lockheed's troops the previous night, Hughes would have been busy putting his own spin on things: perhaps clapping one of the more popular men on the shoulder and telling him with gusto what a great job he did at the sewage plant, asking what he thought of Mustang's men, and slowly he would imbue the man with his own specially crafted blend of respect, suspicion and wonder for the infamous Flame Alchemist.

In reality though – in reality hadn't the man been whittled down to a sliver of the confidence and poise he showed outwardly? Now without a home, under threat and burdened with the young life of Fuery, the bright flame of Mustang's selfhood was critically close to being snuffed out.

Pushing her chair out from the table with a jarring squeal of wood on tiles, Hawkeye gathered her belongings for the day ahead of her. In the mire of recent happenings, Mustang wanted to push her away; in that, at least, he was honest. Where before in his darker moments he had hidden himself away, now he revealed his fears to her and she would honour that confession. She didn't know what the universe had in store for them in the coming hours and days, but whatever dark path they found themselves on, they would overcome, she would make sure of it.

* * *

Staccato flashes cut across his vision, pulsing like light through a train window. He tried to cover his eyes but found to his muted horror that he was insubstantial and had no eyes to cover, nor hands to cover them with. As his awareness grew, he saw about him a murky sea of fog, lit every now and then by the same uncanny flashes of light. Sometimes the swirling mists would begin to take form only to be lost again. Here he saw a hand, and elsewhere a towering building; the curve of a hip or a cocked gun would swim in front of him before dissolving into the same grey smoky soup. He was voiceless and bodiless in a sea of nothing but there was still that light, and he was certain he had to find its source.

At the very thought, his consciousness swept through the fog and being closer, his mind stung painfully with the brightness of the flashes. The flashes turned from a sickly yellow to a violent red, and as they did heat washed across him. As it raged and burned, he felt his physicality take form, welded together under the impossible heat. He stumbled forwards, wisps of smoke circling him as he went and scrambled to an awkward stop a mere foot away from the birthplace of all that light and heat. It was a sight he knew too well by now, and so it shouldn't have taken him by surprise, but it did. It was the volcano he so often dreamed of: spitting, turbulent and terrifying in its natural and unrestrained power.

He issued a hoarse shout and fell back farther, his heels scraping uselessly on the thin shingle. The small, sharp stones made bright chinking noises as they shifted and glanced about his feet, a few slipping downwards and disappearing over the lip of the volcano.

"No." He groaned to nobody. He didn't want to be here, he had things to do – important things. "I don't have time."

"You're right." A voice in the chaos made him still in his struggles. "You don't."

He squinted his eyes against the heat blown ash and cautiously rose to his feet. "Who's there?" He called, his voice carried off by the sooty torrent.

He was met with silence. He edged forward nervously on his right foot, keeping his left planted firmly behind him. "Who's there?" He called again. "Show yourself to me!"

At his demand, like great curtains being drawn back, the smoke parted to reveal a figure standing across the surging magma held within the crater of the volcano. He was dressed in a smart blue uniform, with a great, black coat snapping behind him in the wind.

Something was wrong.

"Who are you?"

"Well, fancy that Mustang! I seem to be you!" The figure said through a smile. "Zai Sheng, Flame Alchemist, Mustang, Colonel, Roy, _Hero_ of Ishbal... How _do _you manage to keep hold of yourself in this pit of selves?"

Mustang? It made a distant kind of sense to him. Yes, that was his name or rather, the word to which he answered. The blue of the uniform and the black hair: he knew by instinct that these were things that belonged to him, that made him _him_.

"I-"

"Oh dear, I think you should take a step back friend. I don't think this heat is agreeing with you..."

Glancing down at himself, he could see the skin of his bare arm start to singe and burn. He yelped, suddenly feeling the pain on perceiving the damage, and tried once more to retreat from the yawning maw of the volcano but found himself caught in the vacuum of heat and air. His arm was tugged forwards by a particularly strong gust of wind and it wavered horribly above the bubbling magma.

"Tch, tch, tch. Trapped Zai Sheng! Frantic, sad little death-child: consumed by the beast of your own alchemy."

Mustang felt a scream well up in his throat as the skin on his arm blackened and cracked, fiery red glimmering in the fissures. He was pulled forward again by the great sucking of the volcano and felt the hot air pound against him, drying every inch of his skin in wave after wave of unforgiving heat. As his toes curled over the lip of the crater, the skin of his arm flaked away in blackened crisps of flesh, to reveal a mottled, uneven mess of glistening black plates that looked almost like -

"Scales!" He shouted, terror biting at his words.

The figure laughed - laughed with Mustang's face and Mustang's voice. He dropped his head and looked at Mustang through dark locks, the light making a devil of his face. "Look at you, wretch – clinging to your life as you clung to it then. You were never meant to live you parasite, you hiccup. They call me the Serpent of Xing but look who finds himself clothed in scales now. Your world is mine, boy – it belongs to Po-Yang. You will lose, you will perish and cling to life no more."

Mustang shrieked and crossed his arms in front of his face as more of his flesh was stripped from him. He couldn't speak as air was snatched from his lungs and his thoughts flew from him, blown free of his reason by the panic racing in him. He turned and buckled as a great pressure built in his back. He fell forward onto all fours and staring down through wide eyes, he saw his fingers boney and black, claw-like and fierce. The pressure in his back crested before being released with a wet popping sound. Clear fluid pooled around him for slim seconds before it simmered and evaporated. With a stiff neck he turned, frightened beyond all imagining. His stomach dropped when he saw in the ash cloud behind him, a black scaled rope sweep through the air, thickening from its tip to where it joined at the bottom of his long, slick back. Monster.

"Monster." The voice said. "Truly, you are a monster, Mustang."

He tried to deny it, tried to refute that awful title but all he could manage was a dry, animal-like rasping.

Something fumbled at his shoulder and grabbed him there.

"Roy! Goddamn it – Roy! C'mere!"

He tried to swing but found himself restrained. He couldn't breathe. He was gasping for air and still none would pass down his ragged throat. Fingers clasped at his chin. He lurched and slapped hard with an open palm, the swipe connecting with a sharp noise.

"Ugh! Hey! Roy!" The hand held fast. "Ow – Roy!"

He pulled back and gasped again, managing to snatch the scarcest breath of air. The name escaped him before the thought had even formed. It was nothing more than a whisper. "Hughes?"

There was a puff of air, too energetic to be called a sigh. "Yeah."

It was as if a theatrical screen was pulled across his vision, one minute there was smoke and billowing magma, the next a room, his old room – dull and unthreatening.

Mustang freed his hands of Hughes' and pushed the clammy heels into his eyes, wet with dream bidden tears. He managed a weak cough. "I – what, where?"

That couldn't possibly be his voice. It didn't even sound like _a _voice, more like gravel shifting underfoot. He shuddered and tried again to catch a full breath but was unsuccessful.

Hughes had him by both shoulders now and grimaced as a bone deep shudder wracked his friend's body. He was sweating heavily, the sheets soaked about him and as expected, his voice was in tatters. Hughes had expected the worst, but it turned out even his expectations weren't bad enough for what he saw.

On first entering the room, Hughes was alerted to Mustang's dreaming by the timid mewling escaping from the mountain of blankets. He had smiled fondly when he saw the messy black hair sticking out from the opening in the blankets, but on actually _seeing_ Mustang, his smile left him. Gaunt, pale and tortured, the proud Colonel was clearly trapped in some terrible dreamscape from which he was powerless to escape. It was when Hughes tried to wake the man that the fun really started. In their long friendship, he and Mustang had shared some interesting experiences but there had not, at least to Hughes' knowledge, ever been unconscious, open handed slapping. He couldn't say he enjoyed the encounter.

Now, as Mustang panted and cowered in front of him, the idea of an intervention sprang back to Hughes' mind. The alchemist would never agree to meeting with a psychiatrist, but the situation was rapidly getting out of hand and one man could only bear so much alone.

He caught Mustang in a one armed embrace, flinching at the hot, uneven breaths breaking against his neck. He shook his friend with weak playfulness.

"Imagine you slapping a good guy like me. I've told you a thousand times: I'm not into slap and tickle." He spoke into the man's hair, noting the smell of smoke and sweat that lingered there.

Mustang barked out a dry laugh and tried to push himself away but failing, leaned against Hughes even heavier than before.

"You wish." He managed. He sucked in a breath. "Sorry, I-"

"You were dreaming, it's okay." Hughes interrupted. "It _is_ singly the strangest thing to have happened to me so far this week though. You're never short of surprises."

Mustang grunted and succeeded then in pushing himself away clumsily. He blinked back at his old friend through sticky eyes and looked for the world like he had been sewn together from left over tatters of cloth. He glanced about him, seemingly gathering some sense of where, who, what and why he was. Hughes waited patiently, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of Mustang's back. The shirt was sodden and beneath it the knuckle-like protrusions of the Colonel's spine were obvious.

As clear as dawn, realisation spread across Mustang's pale features.

"My house." He moaned and hung his head in his hands. "Oh god." The words came muffled by his palms.

Hughes held him tighter and pulled in a deep breath. "Witnesses have already come forward stating they saw a strange car pull up opposite your front door. You'll have no trouble with insur-"

He was cut off by Mustang's coughing.

Hughes reached for a glass of water on the bedside table and passed it across. Mustang took it hungrily and downed the glass in one, some of the liquid escaping and running down his chin to drip on the cotton sheets.

Limp of wrist, he handed the empty glass back to Hughes and let his head drop against the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and his breath made clouds in the cold of the room.

"My house, Hughes. Everything I... why...?"

"At least you have your life..."

Mustang cracked open an eye for the briefest of moments to regard his friend with disdain before sliding it shut again.

"Why must we always talk in 'at leasts'?"

"Because we're fighting a war of attrition. The Fuhrership won't fall into your lap, Roy. You'll recover, you will. It's a hard blow but we'll help; Knox is already making a case for near instant compensation."

"Rubbish." Mustang said through a hollow burp into his hand.

Hughes made a drawn out 'eh' sound and blinked back at his friend, bemused by the sour response. "It's not perfect but-"

"Rubbish... pass me the bin... shit. Shit!" Mustang said with more urgency and sprang forward in the bed quicker than his weakened state should have allowed.

Hughes watched his friend stumble off the edge of the bed, stagger to his feet and bang into the wall before he disappeared into the small bathroom adjoining the room. The sound of dry retching soon followed. Hughes rose to lend support, thinking on the rough, booze addled days of the academy when there was nothing out of the ordinary about Mustang vomiting unceremoniously into a toilet. Things were certainly different now.

The Colonel knelt with his arms wrapped tenderly around the porcelain bowl, his head resting on the rim as he gathered himself for another heave.

"Well..." Hughes began dryly. "This sure brings me back."

Mustang laughed hollowly before his throat caught and he heaved again, chuckling despite himself through his sickness. "Shut up." He managed to whine.

"Remember the time you vomited into my kit bag and you tried to convince me I did it in my sleep?"

Mustang grumbled and sucked in a breath, cooling his forehead against the ceramic cistern. Hygiene did not factor in his pursuit for some relief.

"Or the time we were staying on that farm in the Eastern Dales and you puked out the window onto the prize cow underneath. I swear we were _this_ close to taking an ass full of buckshot. I've never seen you move so fast."

That story elicited a groan from Mustang that filled the small room and echoed off the bath fittings.

"You were sick a lot. _A lot._" Hughes said, idly reaching over to pull some sheets of toilet paper free. He handed them to a grateful Mustang. "You okay?"

Mustang wiped his mouth and took stock of the state of his stomach. Deciding the bout of nausea was over, he stood shakily and turning the faucet to wash his hands, regarded himself in the mirror. Had he had a full stomach, the reflection he found there would have been enough to make him sick again. Dreadful didn't come close to describing his drawn face and sunken eyes. He turned to Hughes and as he did, a dark shadow washed across the image in front of him. He jumped and closed his eyes against the mad apparition at the edge of his sight. Familiar laughter sounded to his left so loudly that there could well have been a mouth pressed against his ear. He cocked his head as though trying to free water from his ears after a swim. He froze when he felt Hughes touch lightly on his hands: he was still washing them, long after they were clean.

"Roy..."

Mustang shook his head and breathed deeply. Slowly, tiredly, he opened his eyes to study himself again before reaching for a spare toothbrush with trembling fingers. Hughes waited patiently while Mustang finished freshening up. That done, the Colonel coughed and delicately replaced the brush.

"Can I be honest?" He asked quietly.

"I've often wondered..." Hughes smiled ruefully, his eyes filled with worry.

"Haw, haw."

Hughes took Mustang by the shoulders and guided him back to the bed. The younger man sat heavily and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Hughes sat beside him, casually checking his watch: 4 o'clock. Hawkeye would be finished delivering her report by now. She was probably making her way across town as they spoke.

Mustang started talking, the light scratching of his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Wei Po-Yang." He said quietly, and Hughes observed the shiver that ghosted across Mustang when he said that name. "Hawkeye told you the news from the Elrics' tutor?"

Hughes nodded. "That these lunatics think you're 'host to a great evil', all that?"

Mustang winced. "I think..." He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, producing a disarray of black strands that would have been comical under any other circumstances. "I think she's right. When the Lieutenant first told me it sounded impossible but... it's hard to explain..."

Hughes' eyes widened almost imperceptibly as Mustang stated what could only be the impossible. "You think she's right?" Hughes laughed uncomfortably. "Roy." He said in a tone that urged reason.

Mustang turned red rimmed eyes to Hughes and choked out his admonishment in something close to a growl. "I'm not fucking around Hughes."

The investigator shrank back slightly. "Sorry. Though didn't she say that this guy was lauded as some kind of benevolent, alchemical hero?"

"You try being stuck inside someone else's mind for that long. In my experience, immortality has become a byword for..." He didn't want to say it, but it was the only word that seemed to fit. "Evil."

"You know best." Hughes responded, reluctance clear in his tone. "I'm finding this hard to digest though... just when I thought the circus couldn't get any wackier..."

Mustang nodded his understanding and closed his eyes, remembering the dreams and that churning feeling in his gut. Whenever he even _thought_ the name 'Wei Po-Yang' something just seemed to click and swell: the invigorating tummy rush of being sat in an accelerating car. "It _feels _right. It makes sense... here." Mustang held his stomach and grimaced.

"I hate to be contrary, Roy but you've never been one to credit feelings."

"It's more than feeling Hughes, it's instinct." Mustang fell silent, his face set in perfect concentration. Hughes could tell he was weighing up how much of his own reasoning he could share. He made a decision and pulled in another sharp breath to continue. "I've had these dreams, Hughes-"

"Dreams?" Hughes looked at Mustang over the rim of his glasses.

"Will you shut up already?" He snapped. He rolled his eyes at Hughes' cynicism and pushed on. "They're terrifying Hughes, darker than anything I could ever have imagined and I know, I _know_, that something is in here with me. I can't describe it... it, it's cloying and claustrophobic. I can feel it now, tearing at whatever restraints there are. It's shown itself to me and thrown down the gauntlet and it _has _to be Po-Yang."

Hughes kept his green eyes fixed on Mustang's face, even as the alchemist looked away with shame clear on his features. It was a huge, dangerously crazed admission to make and frankly it was scaring Hughes, so he could only guess what it was doing to Mustang.

"But why now? Why only this week? It didn't have any effect on you until this Po-Yang guy was actually mentioned by name."

"Or did it?" Mustang asked, his look distant and unfocussed.

"Huh?"

"I wanted to be a concert pianist and found my hand guided towards alchemy. All my life I've been steered into a position of power... How can I be sure I was the one doing the steering?"

Hughes' mouth fell open for a few seconds before he puffed out his cheeks and answered Mustang's uncertainties in one affronted torrent. "Well for starters as long as I've known you, you've been boring the hell out of me with your mumbo jumbo freak-show alchemy, not to mention the fact that it earns you mega cens, praise and any number of perks. You're the most ambitious man this side of the planet, so if it weren't for this ancient alchemist, do you honestly mean to tell me you would be playing suites in hotel lobbies?"

Mustang smiled sadly. "Lobbies? Try the Central Opera House..."

"See! Buckets of ambition, even with your sissy pee-anna playing." Hughes reached a hand to rest across Mustang's shoulders, both men falling into silence as their thoughts took them. Finally, Hughes sighed and spoke with absolute seriousness. "I'll be honest, Roy, this all seems way out there for me, especially coming from you. But knowing the Elrics' story, and seeing everything we've seen recently: if you're telling me there's something more to this Wei Po-Yang business than fanaticism then I believe you. You alchemists sure know how to trump your average security threat, and quite frankly the prospect has me scared shitless."

Mustang clasped his hands together and leaned forward, a new determination colouring his eyes. "We should be."

"Yeah?"

"Whoever it is that's after my scalp, if they catch me there's only one of us walking away from this: me or Po-Yang. That array won't take any prisoners."

Hughes couldn't help but shiver, something about the near whisper of Mustang's voice added another dimension of foreboding to their conversation. "How so?"

"The aporia and the arc, they're key." Mustang looked uncertain before he began speaking again. "In my dream, Po-Yang made it clear that my body was supposed to be a vessel for him right from the very start. The aporia means there'll be no coming back for me; I'll be cancelled out, evaporated. The arc is a common symbol for sublimation, replacing one thing with ano..."

Hughes listened intently with his chin on his finger until Mustang trailed off. He flinched as the Colonel stood sharply, his black eyes dancing with some new realisation. Hughes could see the alchemist leapfrog theories and notions in his mind's eye, familiar after so many years with the frenzied and yet inscrutably logical workings of the man's mind.

Mustang spun on his heel, hands outstretched in search of something. "My jacket, chalk. I need -" He faced Hughes with wild eyes. "Pen, do you have a pen?"

"I- hey!" Hughes didn't have time to answer as Mustang's fingers prodded and poked about his uniform until he found purchase on a pen. He dropped to his knees and leaning against the cream wall, began sketching patterns on the surface similar to those burnt onto his shoulder. He spoke as he worked, his words barely audible over the scratching of the pen on the coarse surface.

"That woman, the one who attacked me. She's a genius, the array is so simple but such imagination! It's like a child's drawing, it's brilliant, it's – Hughes, I think I can save Fuery."

"Wait! What?" Hughes said, lowering himself to his honkers to observe the strange, deceivingly detached scribbles on the wall.

"Sublimation! He might lose a few fingers, maybe even a hand but I can mend his stomach, his _quality_ of life, I can do it, I'm sure. This is just about as close to human transmutation as you can get but we're safe, definitely doable... a few adjustments..."

Hughes didn't know how to react to that. As far as he was concerned, a taboo was a taboo. Was there such a thing as being 'close to human transmutation'?

"I don't know Roy-"

Mustang stood back and regarded his sketches then set about finding a loose piece of paper. Rooting through his kit bag he found a small pad and started scrawling on it. "You don't need to. This has been a total disaster since my birthday and if I can salvage one thing from the fiasco, it'll be using that fat cow's array to save my man."

"Roy! What about the threat you madman?"

Mustang tore the page free and handed it to Hughes. "I need you to get me these books from the library and drop them off at the gate house at the barracks."

"Uh-huh?" Hughes cocked an eyebrow. "And you'll be there?"

"I'll be there."

"Ready to save Fuery's life..."

"Yeap." Mustang said, swinging open the doors of his wardrobe and foraging about, half submerged, for something to wear against the chilling weather.

"I haven't even told you about the debrief yet!" Hughes said indignantly.

Mustang stopped and considered this momentarily. "Was it terrible?"

"Well, no but-"

"Did Lockheed sell me out?"

Hughes grumbled, not appreciating having control of the conversation stolen so brazenly from him. "No, but Roy-"

"Will the world end if I don't hear every last detail of the debrief right now, this very second?"

Hughes cast Mustang an unimpressed look. "Now you're just being a prick."

"You should expect nothing less." He allowed himself a small smile and ran his fingers across his jaw. "Honestly though, are we okay?"

Hughes threw his hands up, at a loss at how Mustang always managed to kidnap conversations so successfully. "Yes, of course. Riza's report will clinch it. Lockheed didn't have a leg to stand on, if he fought us at all there were twenty men who could attest to him striking you. Nice bruise by the way."

"Huh – I'll live."

"Your exhaustion?" Hughes asked, absently running his eye over the book titles.

"It can wait." Mustang said, pulling out of the wardrobe with a massive scarf wrapped about him, succeeding not only in covering his bruised jaw but half his face also. He stretched his neck to free his mouth. "Madame's guys will run me across, and I need you to get the word out that I'm definitely _not_ staying here. Get me some guys posted around the place too. I don't want to take any more chances."

"Other than with your own life."

Mustang scoffed, pulling on his shoes. "I'll be nose deep in a book in the most well secured barracks in the known world."

"And your Lieutenant...?"

The Colonel's face fell and he visibly huffed at the older man's prodding. He looked at the ceiling and back at the window before letting his eyes settle on Hughes, their depths registering some complicated emotion. "When this is all over, I'll make it up to her."

"From the sounds of things, when this is all over, you may not have the chance to. What's this philosophy, Roy? If you want to keep her, keep her in the dark – is that it?" Hughes asked, his face darkening.

"The darkest place, according to a Xingese proverb, is always underneath the lamp, Hughes." Though Mustang's face remained impassive, his eyes burned. "Let me be unambiguous about this: I cannot have her harmed."

Hughes stood back as Mustang heaved his bag over his shoulder and made his way, unsteadily, towards the door. "You're doing her an injustice." He said plainly.

Mustang paused and cast his eyes downwards, recalling first her uncertainty at letting him leave alone the previous night, then the strong arms of Vultee wrapped about her shaking shoulders. "I know." He said darkly before moving past Hughes, his frame seeming more weighed upon than mere moments before.

* * *

In one of the few rooms rented out to lodgers, Mot pawed at the rough cloth of Mustang's glove and surveyed his array: a simple scouring pattern well able to trace the alchemy of others. Using his teeth to hold it steady, Mot slipped on the glove and placed it in the centre of the circle. A moan escaped his lips as he felt the dullest throb of the Colonel's power pulsing from only a few doors down: it worked.

* * *

Ta for reading xxx


	19. Jigsaw Falling Into Place

**Disclaimer: **FMA: Me no own.

See? 19! Told you so :)

Thanks again to everyone for the really super kind words and support. Please, please make sure to check out the links on my profile to the fantastic art by **hand-made-city **and **Fudfoodle.**

Mega thanks as always to **Southpaw**.

* * *

Mustang cracked open an eye to see the mottled black and white of text spread out in blurred lines beneath him. He grabbed for his pocket watch and checked the time through bleary eyes. It was 6am and in the cold grasp of winter, there was only a faint glow of morning in the air. It took him a few long moments to gather sense enough to sit up and when he did, he regretted it. A sharp, lancing pain shot through his head and his eyes watered instantly. After indulging in an exaggerated groan, the alchemist surveyed the fruits of his long night's labour.

Sketch upon sketch was strewn across the desk, most showing wild lines and sweeping arcs. Then there were those few more refined diagrams and finally, half buried under the book on which he slept, the array that would save Fuery. Mustang shifted the book to the side, then reverently, as if he hadn't designed the array at all but was discovering it for the first time, picked it up with shaking fingers. He examined the depths of his creation, following every line and dip in the pattern. A small laugh broke from him, half amazed at the skill and audacity of the work. He imagined that this was the feeling Hawkeye's father must have had on first perfecting his unique and powerful brand of alchemy.

Studying the work once more, he folded it delicately and stretched back to put it in the breast pocket of his spare jacket. He would get Ed to run his eye over it before he used it; the boy had more experience than most with this marque of alchemy.

Knowing it was impossible to find sleep again before work, Mustang set about making himself presentable. The Fuhrer would almost definitely call him to report the very moment of his arrival, and no amount of 'but I wasn't well' would save him from an intense and unrelenting grilling. With the attempt at the sewage plant and now the attack on his house, the Colonel's card was marked: the Fuhrer was no idiot and would want to know exactly why someone was after the head of one of his most prized alchemists.

At the very least, Mustang had the debate to fall back on. He could perhaps raise the theory of a disgruntled ex-serviceman who took umbrage with his controversial opinion on bravery. It wouldn't be the first time a veteran made a target of the military in which he once served. It wasn't airtight, but it was an attempt at an explanation, albeit vague, and may serve some purpose at misdirection.

He finished shaving and with a curl of his lip, regarded his reflection. He looked marginally better than he had done the previous day, in the same way a missing hand was marginally better than a missing arm. It was Friday morning and it had taken him all of a week to see his world turn upside down. He couldn't believe that just seven days ago, his biggest concern was a few grey hairs. Life certainly had a way of straightening out one's priorities.

Bundling the books together, Mustang scrawled a quick note to Breda. He would get the man to collect them later. He pulled on his jacket and coat, cursing the stiffness in his shoulders, then shoved the rest of his gear into his bag. He was about two feet from the door when he realised he hadn't seen his gloves amongst his belongings.

"Idiot..." He groused and hunted through his bag for the rough cloth. Eventually his fingers touched on a small, white bundle with a note attached in Christmas' handwriting. _'Just the one?'_ It read. When his mother had found time to secret the glove in his bag was a mystery. Suffice to say, she had means.

So with one glove, a pounding head, an empty stomach and an unknown number of threats on his life, Mustang pulled the door open and welcomed the morning with a growl.

It was going to be a very, very long day.

* * *

Hawkeye was mad. It wasn't just the brand of anger that came with missing a train or having someone skip the queue, it was the kind of anger that had her eyes stinging and palms sweating. By the time she made it to Madame Christmas' the previous evening, the Colonel had left without message or direction. On calling Hughes, she was told that Mustang wanted to disappear off the grid for a night and would be in work the following morning. When she pressed him, the man said that Mustang had kept his whereabouts secret even from him. She knew, of course, that he was lying. The two of them had always maintained a strong relationship, orbiting Mustang as they did, but she could do nothing to restrain herself when he lied so flagrantly, and for what? To protect the man's location from the very person whose job it was to protect him.

In the end, she slammed down the phone, sickened by his constant apologising and reluctance to tell. It was a poor time for Hughes to start parrying to Mustang's unreasonable requests. She hadn't given credit to the idea of a 'boys' club' until then. Hand in hand with her anger was the shame at being excluded, and after she had allowed Mustang to leave alone the night of the fire.

She puffed out a breath and checked the clock. It was nearing 7am and from that moment, she would be on a constant countdown until he passed over the threshold, waiting with her heart in her mouth.

Exactly five minutes later, the brass door handle turned and the Colonel appeared in the doorway. Their eyes locked.

Mustang strode over to her immediately. "I'm sorry."

Hawkeye didn't answer at first, finding herself able only to shake her head in disbelief at his recklessness, at his _selfishness_.

He looked off towards the window then back at her, and in a pleading tone repeated his apology.

"It's not good enough." She said simply. Hard as it was so see how tired and harried he was, she had to make it clear to him that rashness was no longer acceptable.

He nodded and shrugged off his coat. She watched him take his time hanging it up, thought clear on his face. He turned as though about to speak but in the end said nothing, disappearing into his office without another word or glance in her direction.

As the rest of the team filtered in, they enquired after their leader, all casting nervous looks to the closed door of his office before taking their seats. They seemed disappointed, frustrated even with her lack of information but at the same time, pity was written clearly on their faces.

They started working quietly, only throwing out the occasional comment as they came across an interesting item in their work or their distracted thoughts landed on something from the previous week. Hawkeye only entered Mustang's office once to drop off his mail, and her anxiety grew at the sight of a civilian envelope. She couldn't help but wonder if it was another dark token from his past. When she made her exit, she fingered the handkerchief in her pocket containing the teeth. They were becoming something of a morbid talisman for her.

Just ten minutes after the Fuhrer arrived in the building, the call came to summon Mustang. The tension in the room was unbearably intense as they waited for the Colonel to emerge. He pulled open his door sharply and clipped out a 'good morning' as he marched across the deep blue carpet of their office. Hawkeye's stomach clenched when she heard Havoc make an indignant snorting noise at his commander's behaviour. The Colonel paused with his hand on the door knob. He spoke without turning.

"You have something to say Lieutenant Havoc?"

Of all the staff in Mustang's office, Havoc was the least likely to put up with any 'damn, moody crap', as he called it. Not only was the Lieutenant shocked to receive a measly, insincere 'good morning' by way of addressing the events of the previous days, he was aggravated to the point of insubordination that the Colonel didn't give them a single word on the status of Fuery.

Havoc caught Hawkeye's wary glance and suppressed his anger, just a little.

"No Colonel Sir." He drawled. "I have nothing to say about anything. Ever."

Mustang pulled open the door and left without responding.

Havoc turned to the rest of the team, mocking a conversation with the absent Colonel. "No Colonel, really, there's no need to thank me, it was really no bother – I _love_ standing outside burning buildings on freezing cold nights. Seriously, I would have lit it myself if someone else hadn't." He scoffed. "How the fuck do you deal with that, Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye's face fell under the scrutiny of her comrades but she didn't answer.

Mustang wiped his palm over his sweating face as he marched down the corridor on his way to the Fuhrer's office, ignoring the curious glances of the personnel he passed. When he rounded a corner onto an empty, windowed passageway, he pulled out the small note from his pocket. It had come in the morning post and on seeing it, his stomach somersaulted. It was written in a different hand from the previous notes, but something about the uneven scrawl had him on edge immediately. His heart jolted when he pulled it from the dog-eared envelope.

A newspaper clipping of Ed in his distinctive attire and a short, explicit message: _'You or him, Colonel. We trust you will make the right decision and put your pistol to use. Your star is eclipsed, this is endgame.'_

First Fuery and now Ed: it was intolerable and he was swinging in the dark, threatened not only by those who wanted to invoke Po-Yang, but more crucially by those who wanted to put a stop to that possibility. The frightening thing was, Mustang was inclined to agree with them. The darkness was in him after all, and wasn't his death the easiest way to put an end to any risk? For so long, he felt in his very bones that he had a purpose in life, above and beyond that of most people: maybe this was it. Not the Fuhrership at all but rather his own death and the prevention of the birth of Po-Yang.

It took the innocence of Ed, his vulnerability and virtue, to throw that notion into full relief. It was fair to say that Mustang was utterly terrified and the weight of that fear made some frail thing snap in him.

_'You or him... endgame.'_

The Colonel arrived at the Fuhrer's door and knocked solidly, the hollow thuds resounding with the beating of his heart.

* * *

Ed and Al sauntered down the hallway, chittering out an argument about the properties of water. Al prodded Ed with wacky theories, enjoying the high spirited rebuttals from his brother. They were actually looking forward to stopping by the office for once. They had been told to stay home the previous day and were looking forward to catching up with the team, especially in order to get any news about Fuery.

Ed too wanted to see Mustang, almost to make sure he was in his right place, smug and smarmy as ever. Since the day at the plant, he felt a new kind of affinity with the man, almost as if he caught a glimpse behind a veil and found there something honourable and pure: the very opposite of the person Mustang showed to the world.

They entered the office without knocking and were met with a solid wall of tension and uncertainty. Ed felt it wash against him like heat from a just-opened oven door. They boys stood framed by the doorway, sharing a puzzled glance before pushing timidly into the room.

"Morning." They said in the uncanny unison of brothers.

The men offered lazy greetings but Hawkeye seemed to steel herself before she looked up with a warm smile. "Good morning Edward, Alphonse. How are you?"

Ed shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to Mustang's office then back to Hawkeye. "Eh... good."

"Good." Al repeated quietly.

"So is the Colonel...?" Ed asked, catching a bristling in the men at the mention of the name.

Hawkeye had to play this very carefully. She and the men had decided that what happened to the Colonel's house was best kept from the boys. They would find out eventually, of course they would, but they could only take so much and as long as they kept away from the newspapers until after the weekend, they would be saved from hearing of further upset amongst the small team.

"He's in a meeting with the Fuhrer, he should be back soon." Hawkeye said as lightly as she could, glancing at the clock and seeing it was almost three hours since Mustang left. There was no doubt he was being hauled over the coals, every minute detail of Operation Abacus picked apart and analysed. She could only be glad she had kept her report so succinct. There would be little room for contradiction between herself, Hughes and Mustang.

"A meeting, huh? About the sewage plant? Is everything okay?" Ed asked, milling over to a couch at the back wall and throwing himself there.

Hawkeye shook her head and hid the lie far beneath her cool exterior. "Nothing to worry about, just a conduct thing. It's standard practice for his return to work."

"And Fuery?"

"Yeah-" Al spoke with enthusiasm. "Has there been any more news?"

Hawkeye nodded solemnly. "I spoke to Dr Knox only a little while ago. The Sergeant is still in a critical condition but the staff are hopeful... and so are we." She smiled ruefully and set aside another stack of papers.

Ed motioned to speak when the door swung inwards to reveal Mustang. He could almost hear the collective hunching of everyone's shoulders and knew instantly that something critical was being withheld from him.

"Fullmetal." The Colonel said dryly, any signs of the warmth he displayed at the plant now gone.

"Hey Colonel." Ed's response was more a question than a greeting.

The Colonel tossed a blue bundle to Ed. "That's a uniform, put it on." He said sharply before he started towards his office.

It took Ed all of three seconds to work through a spectrum of emotions from shock to confusion to incredulity to outright betrayal. What had happened to the Colonel who slapped him on the back and told him 'well done'? He knew, and understood the older alchemist had been through the wringer in the last few days but the look he gave Ed was nothing short of scornful. More than that, he _knew_ what Ed's opinion on the military was, _knew_ how much he treasured his independence. A uniform? Just because of a standard conduct meeting? Surely there were easier, less pedantic ways for the Colonel to appease the Fuhrer.

"No." Ed said simply and dropped the uniform to his side. He felt Al shift next to him, standing sentry-like at the side of the couch.

Mustang froze. Hawkeye pushed her chair back, readying herself for _something_ though she couldn't be sure what. Breda coughed into his hand and shared an anxious look with Falman.

The Colonel fidgeted with something in his pocket as he turned. His eyes landed on the small bundle sitting unceremoniously next to Ed. They canted back to his young subordinate.

"Put the uniform on, Ed." He said with a weird sort of lightness. He kept his chin high and back straight while he looked down at the boy through half-lidded eyes.

Ed made a noise between a scoff and a laugh. Mustang's request was totally unreasonable. Why today after so long without a uniform? "No." He repeated.

Mustang looked away, his mouth in a tight line, then gathered himself again and shot two dark eyes back at Ed. Al stirred once more, the clanking of metal clear and bright in the deathly quiet room.

The Colonel clenched his eyes shut then opened them slowly, impatience now radiating from him. "Put. It. On. That is an order, Fullmetal, not a request."

Hawkeye could feel the atmosphere in the room continue to thicken and blacken, as though a dark cloud had moved over them. She couldn't help but gasp, just a little, at how violently the Colonel's left hand was shaking as the other worked at something in his pocket.

"What happened Mustang? The Fuhrer give you grief and now you're taking it out on me? Real cool, Colonel." Ed rolled his eyes and crossed his legs petulantly. He knew it wasn't the time to push the Colonel but they had been here a million times, with their little skirmishes for control, and they had always walked away from it. Ed wouldn't let this go, _couldn't_ in fact. It was more than a stupid uniform, there were principles involved: his autonomy from the military he loathed and yet needed.

Mustang took a step closer and spoke with a voice that held the slightest tremble. "I don't have time to indulge in your little rebellions Fullmetal, now change."

"You change! You can start by being less of an irrational bastard."

"Edward-" Hawkeye warned.

Mustang's lips were twisted in a bitter smile. "No Lieutenant, Edward Elric has to have his say. Say it Fullmetal, call me that name again. Call me a bastard."

Ed shirked. There was a frightening lack of presence to the Colonel's eyes and his demeanour was suddenly animal-like, tightly wound and ready to strike. It was then Ed noticed the snatching and quivering of Mustang's hand.

"No." He said softly, his eyes drifting across to Hawkeye. In a matter of moments he went from a belligerent teen, to a kid desperately in need of some support, some adult and stable comfort.

Hawkeye didn't miss the silent plea and was about to respond when Mustang spoke again, an even rougher edge to his fragile voice.

"Don't look at her! Now come on Fullmetal, tell me what I am..."

Danger dripped off Mustang's words and filled the room as surely as noxious gas. Everyone was finding it difficult to breathe, to find purchase on their calm as they watched the two prize alchemists engage in a battle of wills. Before where there was a lightheartedness to their clashes, now there was only profound misunderstanding and wounded pride.

Ed, shaken by the Colonel speaking to him with such clear exasperation and hatefulness, bit down on his stubbornness. If the guy had just asked nicely, explained himself a little then maybe...

"No."

Something dark in the Colonel shifted, like a derailed train carriage teetering ever closer to the cliff edge. "Listen you little-"

Ed leapt to his feet and thrust a finger at Mustang. "No, you listen you crazy bast-"

No one was given a chance to react.

The Colonel sucked in a breath and kicked out, sending a waste basket careening across the office with a few shocking, untidy clangs. He was already lurching forward, covering the distance in only a matter of steps. With his left hand, he hoisted Ed off his feet by the collar, while he withdrew his right from his pocket to snatch at the uniform. He shoved the bundle against Ed's face.

"Put on the fucking uniform!" He screamed, the words cracking and spit whipping against Ed's face.

The boy was shoved brutally onto couch, and the uniform thrust against his face once more. Mustang leant in close and Ed could see nothing of the cool, protective leader there. There was only rage.

"Put it on you little shit." He said in a near whisper then rose to his full height, leaving Ed cowering in his wake with already dampening eyes.

"Listen to me!" The Colonel barked out to everyone. "This is the Amestrian Military, not some fucking... some f-fucking play park. I'm the boss; you follow _my_ orders. If you don't like it-" his voice broke as the reality of what just happened caught up with him.

Hawkeye stepped forward with her hand held out in caution. "Sir-"

Her intervention only seemed to re-ignite whatever it was that had exploded in the Colonel's fragile countenance. "Back _off_, Hawkeye!" He pointed a finger at her and looked at her with hateful, disgusted eyes. "Back off."

He turned to his men. "If you don't like it, then help yourselves to the resignation papers in my office." He faced Ed who visibly shrank back under the crazed stare. "You can leave your watch there while you're at it, Fullmetal."

That said, he pushed past a dumbfounded Al and pulled open the door, exiting without looking back.

It was a few moments before anyone spoke.

"You should have just put on the damn uniform, Ed." Havoc said with tired disappointment and rose to exit as well.

Breda and Falman just stared at each other in mute distress. Al came to his senses enough to gently remove the uniform from where it was perched between Ed's chin and shoulder.

Hawkeye sat down heavily next to Ed and pulled him against her, unsure whose benefit the embrace was for. Though it didn't matter really, Ed accepted the offering and leant his head on Hawkeye's shoulder, a few quiet sniffs breaking from him. Never in his lifetime had he been so scared: not of harm, not really, but of losing something; of losing that unique and boisterous relationship he had with Mustang. Though he would never have admitted it before, the Colonel was one of the few people in his life Ed was determined not to disappoint.

As though reading his thoughts, Hawkeye spoke quietly against his hair.

"He's not himself."

Ed shook his head. "I know that, I _know,_ Lieutenant. That's exactly why I shouldn't have-"

He was cut off as Hughes came bustling into the room.

"Did I just see Roy lea - what happened?" He asked on beholding the broken scene before him. Ed's red-rimmed, wet eyes were particular cause for concern.

The man waved distractedly to Falman and Breda and moved round to crouch in front of the trio. As he did he picked up a tattered piece of newspaper that had been discarded on the floor.

"Riza, what happened?"

Hawkeye shook her head and fought back tears of her own. She looked utterly lost, and with Ed shivering against her with eyes clenched shut, Hughes could only imagine the worst. "He just – he snapped. Attacked – ran at Ed, tried to force him to wear a uniform. It was..." She couldn't finish, and hoped for the life of her that Hughes would understand, despite their recent altercation.

Hughes drew in a breath and blew it back out again, resting one strong hand on Hawkeye's knee. He toyed absentmindedly with the clipping in his hand. "Why would he-"

"What's that?" The Lieutenant cut in.

Hughes looked confused for a split second before he realised what she was talking about. He held out the clipping so they could both see it. _'You or him...decision...pistol...endgame...'_

"Oh my god." Hughes whispered. He met Hawkeye's wide eyes, and Ed's too as he looked up, interest piqued by Hughes' utterance. He quickly shoved the picture in his pocket, obscuring it from the alchemist's view.

"Oh my god." He repeated and stood.

Hawkeye moved to stand as well, but Hughes placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Let me... please. Find Havoc and ready the team for a briefing. In fact, we may as well get hold of Knox while we're at it. We're taking control. No more messing."

Hawkeye's bewildered, worried eyes closed for a second as she galvanised her emotions and tried to keep hold of her professionalism. Surely Mustang wouldn't hand himself over, put himself at risk – or worse, take matters into his own hands?

Not with a rational mind at least, but their terminology appeared to be shifting again: words like trauma and fatigue being replaced by breakdown and psychosis.

It took her a while to realise that Hughes was addressing her. "What?"

He rubbed her shoulder with his thumb. "I'm sorry I lied to you last night. I was wrong to keep something like that from you but I promise you, Riza, I'll find him and bring him straight back."

"And if you can't?"

"You'll be the first to know."

Hawkeye pressed her lips together and nodded her assent, holding on that little bit tighter to Ed's shoulder.

She watched Hughes speed out the door and in a rare act of maternalism, kissed the crown of Ed's head. He sniffed out a thanks then sat up straight, collecting himself with a huge sigh.

"Thanks." He said again, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Noting the sting of fear in Hawkeye's deep, amber eyes, he returned the favour with a squeeze of her hand. "I better go change."

Thinking on the picture of Ed adorned in his trademark coat and black civvies, Hawkeye wasn't going to argue. It was little wonder the Colonel wanted him in a uniform straight away. The Lieutenant was surprised, in fact, that he hadn't forced Ed to cut his hair as well.

"It's probably for the best."

* * *

Hughes didn't need to tax his investigative skills too much to figure out where Mustang was bound. The Lieutenant Colonel rolled his shoulders and pushed open the bathroom door, oblivious to the fact he was holding a breath.

His instincts didn't disappoint him. There was Mustang, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, bent over the sink with his head in his hands. In the bright of day, light caught the water droplets as they ran over his fingers and dripped into the sink. The tap gurgled happily, and had apparently served to mask the sound of Hughes' entrance.

"I thought I'd find you here." Hughes said carefully.

Though Mustang was still before, Hughes' presence seemed to inspire a new kind of stillness. The Colonel froze like a buck caught in the sight of a hunter's gun.

Slowly, _slowly_, Hughes approached and when he was only a couple of feet away, he took up a position leaning between two basins.

"Ed wouldn't put on a uniform, huh?"

Mustang dropped his hands from his face, but didn't turn to his friend. Instead his attention was fixed on the mirror in front of him.

Hughes balked at the slack jaw and peculiar tensing of the muscles in the Colonel's neck. The incongruity of the actions gave the man a zombie like quality.

Finally, he spoke, still without looking. "He needed to be brought into line. The Fuhrer needs my unit to-"

"I found the threat, Roy. The picture of Ed."

Mustang's eyes widened and he reached into his right pocket. Finding the clipping indeed to be absent, he stretched a crick out of his neck with a hollow pop. "Must have fallen out."

"Must have." Hughes agreed.

Mustang bit his lip and turned off the faucet with a few hard jerks. A dazed look crossed his features for a moment before he prowled over to the stall door and retrieved his jacket.

"We're calling the team together. We're going to look at this situation now."

"No we are not." Mustang rushed out while fastening his jacket.

"Not your decision." Hughes said, trying his best to remain relaxed against the tiled wall.

"Watch it, soldier." Mustang snapped, his black eyes focussing on Hughes at last.

Hughes pushed his glasses up his nose and fought to keep from giving his old friend a withering look. "Don't try that, Roy. It's not going to work. We have to look at this-"

Mustang laughed dryly. "_We_-" he shook his finger between himself and Hughes, "Don't have to do anything. This is _my _problem and too many people are involved already."

"It's exactly because of those people involved that we're doing this together. Are you forgetting why it is we're all here?"

The Colonel glared at his comrade then stormed forward with a bull-like grunt through his nose. Hughes pushed himself away from the wall and caught the alchemist by the shoulders.

"Get out of my way." Mustang said menacingly.

Hughes tried to discern some logic in his cold eyes, and finding none, renewed his grip with a flexing of his fingers. "Don't pretend that you're on this path alone, Roy. We've all made sacrifices to see you make it to the top so treat us with a bit of damn respect."

Mustang swooped his arms underneath Hughes', effectively breaking the contact. "By all means, don't let me keep you from living the family life. I told you a long time ago that I wouldn't be held hostage by your duty as a father."

Hughes caught Mustang's forearms. "Yeah you did. It was bullshit then and it is now: you know that's not what I meant."

The Colonel tried to push away again but found himself restrained. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He couldn't do this, he couldn't...

"Let me go."

"No."

"Let me go, Hughes before I make you let me go." Mustang snatched his arms back but they were caught again, overpowered as he was by the taller man.

"Oh yeah? Because you couldn't take a swipe at Edward? That was really big of you, by the way Roy, pushing a good kid like him around."

Mustang's face registered a deep, intense sadness for a brief moment before his disposition flared again, the whites of his eyes glistening. "He disobeyed a direct ord-"

"That's utter crap and you know it! You attacked him because you've lost your damn grip. Now admit-"

Mustang yanked his hands free and shoved Hughes with all his strength. The investigator stumbled back and managed to catch himself on the rim of a sink.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, Hughes! I'm not your kid, so fuck off and stop being such an interfering bastard all the time. Piss off back to your fucking family and stay the hell away from my business!" The alchemist railed, then panting, shot one last comment at his oldest and most dear friend. His voice was low and could barely be heard, even in the silence of the bathroom. "You should have left the military a long time ago you soft prick."

Hughes surveyed Mustang for a long time without saying anything, then correcting his glasses again, turned away. "You know, if this is how you're going to handle every dilemma that walks into your life then you don't deserve to be Fuhrer, or our support..."

Hughes trailed off when he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He pivoted back to see that Mustang had turned his face away and held one knuckle to his mouth. He was breathing noisily, his eyes darting back and forth, and when he closed them, a plump tear escaped and cut a line down his cheek.

"Roy..." Hughes whispered plaintively and stepped towards the man.

The movement had Mustang springing back against a stall, hiding his eyes with one hand.

"No!" He squealed, horrified at his own weakness.

There was a loud gasp for breath, then a shuddering release of it. He would not cry, he couldn't: unacceptable, unprofessional, uncool, unhelpful, weak, pathetic, graceless, abhorrent...

Hughes didn't take another second to act. He stepped forward strongly and caught one hand at the nape of Mustang's neck, while the other grabbed him by the back. The Colonel tried to buck away but he was pulled into a firm embrace.

"Fuck you!" He shrieked, as more tears broke from his eyes.

Hughes realised in some primal part of him, that more than any talk about psychiatrists and support groups, this was the breakthrough they were all waiting for. In their many years as friends, he had never seen Roy Mustang cry.

"You bastard... you fucking..." Mustang continued to heave out through his quiet tears and wet breaths. Then with a massive, echoing sadness, the first loud sob broke from him, then another, then another. Hughes put his all into the hug and sank them both to the floor, rubbing Mustang's back as he cried for every last inch of hurt he had caused, witnessed, and felt in a lifetime of sacrifice and sorrow.

"I'm not a monster, Hughes. I swear. I never – I'm just a man. I'm not a monster." The Colonel muttered into the other man's shoulder.

Hughes grimaced at the profundity of the plea and pulled the smaller man closer to him. "I know, Roy, I know."

It had never, ever occurred to Mustang that crying was an option, and there were many who thought him incapable of it; but in the end, it was the quiet rain striving to douse the flames of his awful, precious guilt.

Hughes had never felt closer to another human being.

* * *

Everyone listened with wide eyes as their Colonel addressed them. Whatever it was that had happened between Hughes and him, he had returned a new man. Though he addressed them soberly, there was a steadiness and resolve there that was missing before, an openness and trust that had the whole team hanging on his every word.

He explained everything, meeting each pair of eyes and never allowing his head to drop. Omitting only the details that would implicate Hawkeye, he detailed the entire journey from first receiving the teeth, right up to the very moment when something in his mind snapped. He shared his illness, the fact that Ishbal still haunted him, that there were damaged parts of his soul long in need of repair. Certain details about the war elicited knowing nods from Breda, Havoc and Hawkeye, and Hughes would step in now and then to supplement what Mustang was saying.

The Colonel spoke about his meeting with the Fuhrer, about the man's curiosity and worrying allusions to the recent escalation in adverse activity. Bradley referred, obliquely and with a wave of his hand, to a cult bent on finding 'some old relic, right here in Amestris.' It was difficult to know if the Fuhrer was merely testing the water, or if he had some deeper knowledge of Mustang's dark, unwilling passenger.

Ed listened as though hearing for the first time a beautiful, sad piece of music. Every dip and crack in Mustang's voice seemed of the utmost importance to him, and he cocked his head to better listen. Though it itched horribly, he didn't pull at the rough material of the uniform as it rubbed against him and when the Colonel revealed the threat to his life, he hung his head, ashamed at his petulance.

"_Chin up, Fullmetal. __I'm__ sorry. I should have been honest with you."_

_Ed nodded and offered a toothy grin in response. "Practice makes perfect, Colonel. You'll get there some day."_

Finishing up, the Colonel leant back against the desk, curling his fingers around the lip and crossing his ankles in front of him.

"So in short, we've got people who want me gone for the wrong reasons."

"The guys with the array." Hughes counted on his finger.

"People who want me dead for, arguably, the right reasons..." He coughed when he caught Hawkeye's quietly alarmed glance.

"The gunmen."

"People who want me alive for the wrong reasons."

"The military."

"And, you guys: the people who want me alive for the right reasons... I hope." He finished with a wry, and somewhat bashful smile.

The room drew in a breath together, still processing what was said. Unsurprisingly, it was Havoc who was the first to speak.

"Well..." He said, pulling out his lighter and flicking the lid open and shut again. "One out of four ain't bad."

Hughes got to work on organising the troop into pairs, having each of them run through the details of the past week again and writing any important details down. It was clear that not only did they have to quell the threat of the pro and anti Po-Yang fanatics, they would then have to figure out how to terminate the soul of the ancient alchemist, and moreover convince the world that they had succeeded. All that and still keep things under wrap from the military. No one had signed on for an easy ride with Mustang, but their current mission was certainly a hefty challenge.

Seeing his team set to work, Mustang walked up to Hawkeye and touched her lightly on the elbow. She looked up from her work with Havoc.

"Sir?"

"A word?" Mustang asked, and rather than walk off as he usually did, sure that she would follow, he waited for her consent.

The Lieutenant nodded and moved passed him towards his office.

Mustang closed the door gently and cast sheepish eyes to the woman standing uncomfortably in front of him.

"If it's okay with you, I'm going to talk for a little while. Feel free to stop me at any time, or throw something or storm out: that kind of thing." A self deprecating smile accompanied his words.

Hawkeye's amber eyes fixed on him and she returned his smile by way of invitation that he continue.

"I have been inexcusably unfair to you." He said with a quiet, resounding strength. "I've been selfish, childish and irresponsible. I didn't trust you when I should have trusted you the most, and I leant on you for support even though I offered you no foundation of your own." He made a scornful noise and shook his head. "I've known you for so long that sometimes I forget that we aren't perennial; that I owe you things like honesty and esteem. You earn that much from me every, single day."

He filled his lungs and stepped towards her.

"I love you. I love you, Riza. I won't ask you for a second chance; you'll make that judgement on your own, and whatever that decision may be, I know it will be the right one. Only... I need you to know that I will always care for you, and long for you in the deepest, most unadulterated regard."

He took her hands in both of his and bent at the waist so that his forehead touched them. Hawkeye looked upon his quiet crown, bowed in supplication, and her blood raced. Despite her anger in the last hours and her worries that their relationship would invite nothing but disaster, she had already taken a bite from the forbidden fruit and knew in her heart that a life without him beside her, forever, was unbearable.

Freeing a hand, she placed a finger to his chin and raised him to standing. The couple stared at each other for what could have been a second or eternity, both enjoying the timorous silence. Finally, Hawkeye raised herself on her toes and pressed her lips to Mustang's. He released the breath he had been holding through a smile as he returned the kiss, and took her by the lower back, pressing her flush against him.

Eventually they broke free only to press their foreheads together, each holding the other by the nape of the neck.

"How long is perennial?" Hawkeye asked with eyes closed.

"A really long time." Mustang whispered, relishing her heartbeat thrumming against his chest.

"Hmm." She moaned quietly and wetted her lips.

"Care to join me?"

She opened her eyes and pushing back, looked at him with a bright, humoured expression. "I've told you before, Sir, even into hell."

Everyone looked up as the Colonel and his Lieutenant emerged from the office, sly smiles in place. Hawkeye returned to Havoc who made a knowing 'oh yeah' noise as he scanned over his work. She elbowed him playfully and got back to the task at hand, a new hope blooming in her breast.

Mustang coasted up to the brothers and stood over them, watching their busy scribbling and noting with a kind of pride, their observations about the array. He cleared his throat and Ed looked up dazedly.

"Hey Ed."

"Hey Colonel."

"Can I have a word?"

Ed looked at Al who shrugged his shoulders as much as a hulking mass of metal could.

"Sure..." He said quietly and followed the Colonel out of the room.

They walked in curious silence until they were exiting the building and heading to the parade ground. Reaching the gate, Mustang stood back and held it open to let Ed enter. It was strange being treated to the Colonel's inherent civility and Ed blushed a little as he ducked past the outstretched arm.

They strolled up to the tiered benches where Mustang gestured they stop.

"A long way to come for a quick word, Colonel." Ed said, looking around the empty trooping ground. It shone with a light frost and other than the occasional city noise, the space was utterly quiet.

"I didn't say it would be quick." Mustang returned and took a seat next to Ed. "Anyway, you need to go a long way in this place to find a bit of privacy."

"Hmm."

"Listen Ed, I want to apologise to you. My recollection's pretty muddy but I know I embarrassed you in the office before, frightened you even."

Ed shrugged, _now_ embarrassed or perhaps surprised by Mustang's candour.

"Don't worry about it, I was-"

"You were being reasonable. I should have explained myself to you. If I had been open with you all about the threat in the first place, Fuery may not be where he is."

Ed didn't know what to say to the man. He knew, simply by virtue of it being Mustang, that he didn't want consolation or acceptance, there was something else the Colonel was trying to communicate. Ed hadn't realised such a silence had passed between them until Mustang started speaking again. He was leaning forward with his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees, his voice sounding thin as though coming from a radio with the volume turned down.

"At the start of my service in Ishbal, I was deployed to a detachment of commandos called the Twenty-Fives. You don't have to use your imagination too much to figure out how they got that tag."

"There were twenty-five of them?" Ed asked.

Mustang laughed warmly, without a trace of gloating. "Maybe you do, Ed. No, they were all twenty-five years old at the time, every single one of them: seven in total. Funny huh? Peculiar."

"Oh." Ed uttered and shuffled over a little to accommodate Mustang as he leant back.

"The brass wanted me to get a taste for life in real combat, _and_ to enhance the efficacy of their raids if things went wrong. The Twenty-Fives were the perfect unit for me to join. They were model soldiers, Ed, perfect. Well trained, strong, intelligent... _human_. They were funny too and being older than me, I really looked up to those guys. I was even a little jealous I didn't come from the country like they did. I can tell you, I didn't have an easy time being the only alchemist _and_ a city boy.

"Everything we touched was gold, every single mission a success. My alchemy at that time provided little more than a distraction or 'get-out' tactic for the boys, but the brass soon started to see my potential for bigger things.

"We were on phase two of a mission to secure a welled village that intelligence cited as a hotbed for insurgents, when I was withdrawn for an assignment further down the line. We said our goodbyes and promised to catch up on the other side. Before I went I got a fair amount of abuse for being spotted as the State's new poster boy. They were _harsh _critics, Ed... wow, they were harsh.

"Word reached me the following night that things had gone south on the mission. The village wasn't just a hotbed, it was _swarming_ with members of a hardened faction of Ishballan dissidents known as the Sons of Ishbal. The Twenty-Fives were ambushed in the morning, their camp overturned and their horses cut loose. They were rounded up, dragged through the village and thrown into the well – their grenades went in after them. By the time State forces made it there, the Sons of Ishbal had already gone, leaving only a few innocent villagers-come-witnesses behind. I was given the order to raze the whole site the following morning."

Mustang closed his eyes, and Ed could practically see the memories wash across him.

"Twenty-five, Ed. I used to think they were so old, so experienced. But they were five years younger than I am now, and will be forever."

Ed shivered and couldn't be sure if it was from the chill wind, or Mustang's dark eyes which now studied him unabashedly.

"The guys had a really solid philosophy: 'Where we exist, death doesn't; and where death exists, we are no more.' But they were wrong. Death isn't an end, it's a part of life and you know as well as anyone the hole it leaves behind. It needs no invitation and doesn't care who it takes." His mouth twisted into a sad, nostalgic smirk. "Knox once said, 'There's a lot of men who put their boots on in the morning and don't think for a second that I'll be the one taking them off again.' One minute you have a head full of hopes, dreams, fears, jealousies, memories; favourite flavours of ice-cream, the tune of a song you can't remember the name of, and the next-" The Colonel opened his hands palm up. "There is nothing, _you_ are no more, but the world keeps turning. When I got that note and saw your picture, Ed, I don't know – I couldn't think straight. Then when I saw Al standing next to you, and I was thinking the worst and well... you know the rest, right?"

Ed's eyes wavered as they met Mustang's. Boy and man shared something unspeakable, and felt in that moment that they really understood each other; that they had both stood in the same darkness called grief.

"Thank you." Ed said seriously.

Mustang smiled and slapped his hand down on Ed's knee. "I want to show you something. Have a look and tell me honestly what you think." He said, reaching into his breast pocket.

He produced a folded piece of paper and passed it to Ed. The teen's eyes widened as he opened the page to reveal an elegant array. He took in every sweeping line of the pattern in seconds, but still his mouth worked in disbelief.

"This is – Colonel – I – you – but the -"

Mustang studied the boy's reaction, unsure if he was witnessing awe or fright at the dangerous array.

"Fuery?" Ed's eyes lit up. "You're going to – it's for his stomach."

Mustang nodded.

"But he'll lose something, maybe some colon, a hand? Maybe even a leg. Colonel this is-"

"Risky, I know but-"

"Genius!" Ed shook his head in sheer astonishment.

Mustang wasn't wrong, it _was_ risky but it was also inspired. So long as Fuery's soul was in a state of flux – which was a given due to his comatose state – _and _they used nothing but his own body mass, the transmutation would work without a shadow of a doubt. Ed knew it by instinct almost instantly. He didn't miss the aporia and arc, leftovers from the array on the Colonel's shoulder but everything else about the pattern was a work of exquisite talent.

Mustang laughed loudly at Ed's gaping mouth. "Don't look so surprised, Fullmetal. I'm actually a rather brilliant alchemist."

"No kidding." Ed said, looking at the array again. "You're going to be even more of a pompous asshole now, right?"

"You would be disappointed if I was anything else." Mustang stood and held out his hand to help the teenager up. "Come on, let's get you back inside: that uniform looks ridiculous on you."

"Hey you-"

Ed's words were obscured by a crack followed closely by a sharp _ping_: a bullet glancing off concrete. Mustang wrenched Ed from his seat and pulled the boy close against him so his back was pressed against the older man's chest. The Colonel had his glove on in a flash and snapped his fingers. A wall of fire rose about them, obscuring them from the rest of the parade ground and effectively creating a screen for them to pass behind to the main gate.

They ran along the wall of fire, ducking slightly as bullets whistled through the air behind them and pounded into the wall. Ed overtook Mustang and slid round the corner, skidding to a halt as he came nose close to the barrel of a gun. Confusion reigned in the moments that followed, moments that Ed would never forget.

Mustang rounded the corner behind Ed and his stomach twisted when he saw the pistol poised just inches from the teenager's face. He snapped once and shot a lancing column of fire at the attacker, burning the gun from his grasp. The man squealed in pain and struck out at Ed with the heel of his hand before reaching for a second gun in his belt. Mustang was already there with gun drawn and had covered Ed's eyes just in time before he shot the man in the cheek, then again, square between the eyes.

Ed struggled against Mustang's palm, his chest thundering with the beating of his heart and he had to quench a sick feeling when he heard two shots followed by the wet thump of a body hitting the ground.

Mustang removed his hand and turned the boy to face him. Seeing blood seep from Ed's busted nose, the Colonel shook him once by the shoulders.

"You okay?" He asked, his pupils huge in his already near-black irises.

Ed nodded messily but didn't have a chance to answer as another fusillade cut through the flames. They both ducked towards the exit but Ed was sure he heard a noise like a yelp break from the Colonel. When he looked though, the man's face was set and unflinching.

They hurried through the gate and started heading back towards the headquarter's main entrance when a young woman raced round the corner behind them, armed with two handguns. Mustang pushed Ed away from him in the direction of the main building.

"Run soldier! Get backup!" He shouted and fired back, forcing the woman to fall in behind a buttress in the bleacher wall.

"I'm not going to run off and leave you here, Mustang you idiot!"

"You're not, Ed. We're splitting up, this is our chance to get these guys. I can't live my life waiting for them to spring from the-" he fired again, seeing the woman emerge from behind her cover, "from the shadows!"

Ed felt sick. "I – I can't Colonel."

Mustang kept his cool and walked up to Ed, his gun still trained on the woman's recess. "The AVA building on the south side. I'll meet you there. If we can lure them that far, we can surround them. We could end this tonight."

Ed shook his head, confusion and fear snapping at him like an angry dog. "AVA?" He asked, breathy and distraught.

"The auto-vehicle place. They'll know it, the team will." Mustang took a step back. "They'll know it, Major."

Ed stumbled backwards a little, watching as Mustang retreated so the attacker would be in view the second she appeared again.

"Go!" Mustang shouted and fired twice, emptying his gun to keep the woman in her place.

Ed nodded and bounded into a sprint. "You better not die bastard!" He called back, realising as he went, the reason why Mustang hadn't used his name or title since the attack began. "Don't you dare die, you overprotective asshole."

Mustang watched him go then turned back to the path leading to the parade ground gate. He needed the assassin to show herself before he made his move. It wouldn't be any good if he made his escape to the warehouse all alone without a single insurgent in tow. "Come on..." He muttered. "Come _on_."

At last a dark head appeared. Mustang smiled grimly and raised his hand to snap, just to caution the woman and give him a chance to flee, but his face fell when he saw she was smiling too.

His eyes followed hers and he saw to his horror that his glove was soaked through. Bright red blood dripped from his fingers and ran down his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. He had felt something stinging vaguely after the second volley of shots; he thought he had knocked his hand or caught a nick but never, _never_ had he thought he had been shot so cleanly. The bullet had punched straight through his palm.

He wouldn't have time to reach for his second firearm, and definitely didn't have a chance to reload his preferred pistol. So as the woman cocked her weapon and took aim, Mustang did what every good soldier did in situations like these: he ducked, ran and hoped for the best.

* * *

Thanks as always for reading chaps! Yeo x


	20. In Living for Others

**Disclaimer: **I don't ownio!

Thanks to the wonderful and ever helpful **Southpaw.**

Thank you so much to everyone who has continued to take the time to leave a comment. I am honestly very appreciative of your going to that effort. Ta!

Check out the profile for links to some wonderful, skilful and truly wunderbar art work by **hand-made-city** and **Fudfoodle.**

**(my-name-is-foxglove: **See? I've nailed my colours to the mast! It now carries the banner of Royai. :D Ta.

Almost the end of the road chaps... :/

* * *

"In living for others, he had eliminated himself"

Said of Roger Casement.

* * *

A bullet kissed the air behind Mustang, the whistle of it pushing him onwards with new fervour. He leapt over the culvert edging the parade grounds and moved down, far down the embankment to where the storm drain joined the Blackwater River. Tall weeds whipped against his thighs as he broke through the margin and onto the pavement that would follow the river all the way to the industrial parks.

The ground sped underneath him as he went, the cold air gripping at his lungs, his limbs. His teeth ached and his chest burned; his right hand throbbed while his left tingled winter numb in the still frosted afternoon. When tiredness took him, his strides lengthened to a lazy, loose falling forward, then another shot would ring out and he would dart sideways, a fresh energy lifting him. The will to survive dragged him by the collar and kicked him by the backside into a frantic new pace.

He didn't look back. He didn't look down. He didn't worry about tripping – couldn't. The very thought itself could invite disaster and bring him crashing to the ground where he would be shot where he lay, squirming on his belly. Behind him the staccato footfalls of his pursuers did not slacken and did not wane. They continued with passionate abhorrence: a relentless drumbeat against the smooth concrete of the paved embankment.

As Mustang raced under a bridge he imagined the oblivious city dwellers above him; ignorant of him, of his life and its fragility. And yet despite this, despite the porcelain vulnerability of his flesh, he would live, he _had_ to live, had to make himself robust. He had things to accomplish, old ghosts to put to rest and futures to map. These people were too cheap to take those things from him. Besides, he truly understood now that his life could never really be his own. It belonged to Hawkeye, Hughes, the Elrics, Fuery, everyone, _everyone_ who saw in him a brighter future for Amestris. Idiotic as he had been in recent days, years even, he knew that much. He would do whatever it took to live and haul his country from the fetid mire of corruption.

What sounded like a third pair of footfalls joined the pursuit behind him. He heard ragged orders called in what must have been Xingese and drew on every ounce of his instinct to feint right, away from the river, as another rally of shots flew past him. Some rang off the pavement, a showy fan of orange sparks spraying outwards where they connected, while others punctured the dark waters of the river with thick pops.

A cry of alarm broke from him as his feet lost purchase on black ice. Overcompensating to regain his stride, he called out again when his shoulder slammed into a lamp post. Pain flashed down his arm as far as his wrist and he noted with cool military appraisal that he could no longer feel his right hand. The stumble inspired a revitalised hunger in the chase and he was certain he heard someone bark out a laugh before calling, 'Give up!'

Sweat flew from his fringe as he threw his head forward, stubbornness raging in him at that small taunt. _Fuck you,_ he thought, not willing to waste his breath on uttering the curse. He had time enough for swearing when the race against death was done.

* * *

The room hummed with timid blue light before falling into curtained darkness again.

Mot shifted in his shallow doze at the desk, his left hand stretched in front of him to rest in the middle of his small scouring array.

The light sprang to life again with a wet crackling sound. Mot raised his head and glanced about him in a weary, sniffling daze. When the array sparked again his eyes shot open with sudden wakefulness.

The fizzing was smaller than he had anticipated, more vague and fleeting, but the chemistry was there certainly. Somewhere within the city, the Colonel's thoughts were bent on flame alchemy. The hourglass was scarce of sand now and it was only a matter of time before Po-Yang would be reborn.

* * *

As the team pushed across the yard towards their car, Havoc glanced sideways to see Hawkeye march beside him, eyes thoughtful and jaw set. He moved a little closer so his comment would be heard only by her.

"Imagination is the killer, Ri. We'll find him. We will."

Hawkeye said nothing. Her only answer was the quickening of her pace.

* * *

Mustang indulged in a huff of relief when he reached the point past the city centre where the freight line converged with the water walk. A slow train lumbered past him and he used the opportunity of distraction to vault sideways into the brush as he anticipated another round of firing. He slowed as much as was safe to allow the freight train to pass him before he scrambled up the bank and crossed the tracks.

Hearing angry, muffled shouts from down the bank, the Colonel slowed to a trot, still conscious that he might lose them and have to fight another day. That uncanny feeling that had plagued him during the mission at the sewage works was working its way into his system. Now that he had come this far, whatever that peculiar sense was told him that everything would end tonight. He had to admit, there was something morbidly invigorating about it.

He reached the end of the open lot and slowed right down to a light jog. Around him, the mills, factories and workshops towered upwards, redbrick behemoths kissing the faint lilac of the dimming winter sky. With city workers finishing early on Fridays, the area was dead silent. Not even the pigeons plagued here; the sulphur, grime and soot were too much for them. Moving farther inwards, his breath puffed out in neat little clouds as he struggled to fill his lungs.

At last, the female gunner breached the top of the bank. Clipping an order over her shoulder, she crouched to one knee and took aim, but her target was already disappearing around the corner.

Mustang's boots broke the scum film on a dirty puddle as he ran down the thin alley separating the welding yard from the AVA building. Rounding another corner, he panted his way towards the entrance, glad of a place where he could at least hole up with his back against solid brick until his support arrived. He had no doubt in Ed's integrity, or that of his men. They would be there as soon as they could, ready to do what was necessary to keep him breathing.

Leaning on the entrance gate, he looked up to discern the best way in.

He should have known better than to presume. His past week was hardly a shining example of good fortune. Half of the building's roof appeared to have fallen in, its broken iron rafters shadowed against the sky like vicious teeth. The door was heavily chained and bolted so drawing an array was out of the question; there would never be enough time. The sign adorning front wall of the building shouldn't have been a surprise at all.

_'Condemned.'_

Mustang couldn't help but bark out a laugh as irony insisted on nipping at his heels.

* * *

Mot drew his hand from the seventh small scouring array that had led him all the way to the industrial complex. The hairs on his neck bristled with how close he was to the Colonel now. He paused to savour the tantalising closeness, humming lightly and flexing his toes in his cheap boots.

Smiling with a soft noise, he carried on beneath the towering factories like a moth to a flame.

* * *

Mustang scrambled up the wire fence at the side of Grand Central Welders and dropped heavily to the other side. As he stumbled through the lot, he could hear the voices of his hunters bickering back in the alleyway. Seeing the four or five ominous looking warehouses arranged about him, he was tempted to push on through to the coal and lumber mills at the heart of the compound. The temptation was out of the question though. He needed to be close enough to the original rendezvous point to plug into his team when they arrived, and far enough away to avoid his pursuers. His only option would be to sit tight in one of the warehouses and trust that his staff would find him.

Taking chalk from his pocket with the shaking fingers of his left hand, Mustang drew a rough array on the huge metal door of the third building. The lock faltered and slipped on the other side, falling to the floor with a thud. The Colonel glanced back once and entered.

The sharp tang of burnt metal fell on his tongue and filled his nostrils as he paced into the empty depot. Smokey shafts of muted light filtered down through the ceiling windows, making the whole space appear as some underbelly church for the worship of industry. Huge piles of steel struts and girders shaped unruly corridors on the floor, and as he stalked his way through them, Mustang couldn't help but smirk at the metaphor of this place of fire and metal.

Slipping around a massive coil of cable wire, the alchemist finally allowed himself to sit. He leant back, thankful for the freeze of the metal against his burning neck. He raised his hand to assess the damage and it was exactly what he expected: terrible. Peeling off his glove with a wince, he sucked in a breath and took a closer look. The entry wound to the palm was tiny, nothing more than a small black hole just short of his forefinger and thumb. Though it bled freely, it looked positively jolly compared to the back of his hand. The bullet's exit had taken most of the skin with it and what remained was a charred, bloody disc that hollowed out much of his right hand. If he didn't know better, he would say his forefinger was in trouble too, bent back dramatically as it was.

"Shit." He whispered.

He pulled in another sharp breath and with his chalk, set about figuring out an array to transmute his ruined glove into a makeshift bandage. He was stopped in his efforts by the least likely sound he would have expected to hear at a time like this: whistling.

He waited with his back pressed tight against the cabling, listening to the shuffling footsteps and badly tuned whistling. Reaching back into his belt holster, he retrieved his second pistol as quietly as he could and cocked it, muffling the sound between his knees. The footsteps grew ever closer.

Mustang steadied his breath and tried his best to forget the pulsing pain in his right hand, so much worse now that he knew how badly damaged it was: perception was a funny thing. Hearing the footsteps only a metre or so away now, he held the gun poised beside his cheek and prepared to take aim.

"Don't move." The Colonel said as the figure passed the bale.

The man, or his instincts rather, weren't as obedient as Mustang would have liked. He yelped and spun on his heel then outright screamed when he saw the gun pointed at him. His arms flew up to cover his face, the dangling right sleeve showing clearly where he had lost a hand. There was that irony again: two men with two workings hands between them and both of them left.

"Please!" He squealed again. "Please don't sh-"

"Shut up!" Mustang snapped then leaning sideways, chanced a look around the cables to check that no one prowled at the door. "Just – calm down. I'm not going to hurt you."

The man quivered where he stood and looked about him nervously. "S-s-sorry sir."

Mustang regarded the man for an uncomfortable length of time, his eyes sweeping over every tic and grimace. Finally, he lowered his gun and spoke. "What's your name?"

"Mot." The mouse-like man answered. "Nestor Mot."

Mustang nodded at the missing space where a hand should be. "A welder's yard is a pretty surprising place to find a guy with one hand..."

"I lost it on the buzz-saw sir. The boss let me stay on as a caretaker." He said quietly, sullenly. "I'm sorry I disturbed you. I honestly didn't-" His eyes found Mustang's hand. "Your _hand_. Oh my – you – can I help? You're bleeding – I'm sorry, oh I'm sorry -"

"Will you just -" The Colonel rolled his eyes at the man's babbling, trying to fit his words in amongst the stream of apologies. Roy Mustang was not accustomed to _trying _to make himself heard. "Hey!"

Mot stopped silent. He didn't look capable of such a thing, but his sallow face flushed.

"Look Mot. If you want to help me, you think you could find me something to bandage this with?" Mustang stole another glance around the corner before wiping tiredly at his forehead. "Then you should go – it's not safe for you here."

Mot looked blankly at him for a few moments then patted his jacket with his remaining left hand. "Oh! Yes, certainly. I think I have..." He reached his hand into his inside pocket. "Something here."

The nervous man drew a roll of gauze from his pocket and knelt down beside Mustang. "I keep this with me for my own injury." His eyes darkened. "It weeps from time to time."

Mustang made a face before extending his own injured hand, a little uncomfortable at having to ask for the aid. Shame or no shame, tying a bandage with just one hand was no easy feat; they would have to work it between them. "Would you mind?"

Mot smiled, the weird shaping of his lips lending him a lustful expression. Mot took Mustang's fingers and bit at the roll of gauze with his yellowed teeth, loosening the material.

"Not at all." He smiled again more widely, his eyes holding onto the Colonel's a little too long. Licking his lips, he squeezed lightly on Mustang's blue fingers.

"You have very delicate hands."

The Colonel quirked a brow at the odd comment before clenching his eyes shut, the face in front of him growing fuzzy for a moment. When he opened them again, the haze hadn't vanished as he had expected. Perhaps he lost more blood than he thought, then there was the exhaustion...

"So very beautiful." Mot said, his voice sounding unusually loud.

Mustang snorted and made an attempt at a sarcastic comment but the words weren't there when he looked for them. He coughed instead and instinctively pulled his hand towards him, but Mot held on.

A thumb stroked the ragged edge of his wound. "So precious."

The Colonel wasn't aware that anything was untoward until the back of his head connected with the cabling. Had he just nodded off? A pale face leered in front of him and though Mustang told his body to jerk back, it wasn't co-operating. His feet were tingling away to a worrying numbness but then, so too were his thoughts.

"Peerless."

Enlivened energy shot through Mustang's mind and blinking a few times, he looked first into those flat, green eyes then down at his hand. Mot was no longer attempting to bandage the hand but was merely holding it with the same tenderness as a man might hold his lover's. The Colonel's breath hitched in his throat as the world was obscured again by a thick haze. When he cleared his eyes once more, they landed on Mot's right sleeve, and the chalk-like dust that stained its cuff.

"Chalk..." The Colonel murmured, as his muddled mind ran back to the calcified array on his shoulder. How could this weedy individual have worked with such a lumbering, brilliant alchemist as that woman from the debate? A wet buzzing started in his right ear and the feeling of tipping into nothingness shook his whole being. His thoughts were blown away like dandelion seeds, only a message to flee remaining.

"No..." He slurred and pushed himself backwards against the coil but Mot still had his hand and was now kneeling right over him, his knee pushing against his upper thigh.

"Exquisite."

Mot shifted his hand quickly from Mustang's fingers to cup his jaw softly. Their faces were only an inch apart now and somewhere through his murky reasoning, Mustang registered a breath run across his skin. Mot's chest pressed against Mustang's and the alchemist could feel the hammer blows of the excited heart beneath the flimsy caretaker uniform. He tried to protest but he found he couldn't make a sound as his head fell back once more, exposing his neck to the hot, wet lips that ghosted across his larynx and down to his collarbone. As the world faded to the warm black of slumber, two words pierced Mustang's fleeing consciousness.

"You're mine."

* * *

Having arrived at the AVA building to find the 'condemned' sign, the group were gripped by a new urgency. Hawkeye, despite the fear that tore at her thoughts, managed to muster the men into smaller units. Knox, unused to combat was paired off with the experienced Havoc, while Breda and Falman were to search the farthest end of the complex. Al was instructed to retrace the river back to headquarters and Hughes returned to the investigator's office to scan the radios for any sightings across the rest of the city. Hawkeye and Ed agreed they would be faster if they split up. The alchemist took the factories closest to the AVA building and Hawkeye ventured into the middle of the estate, looking back only once to watch Ed's back as he slipped round a low wall.

Each armed with radios, the units went their separate ways under the proviso that if they saw anything, they would signal the others before engaging. Ed was told, with no room for misinterpretation, that he was to intervene by himself under only the most critical circumstances. The teen had to hold his tongue from retorting that why in the hell else were they there in the first place, if not for critical circumstances. One look from Hawkeye told him there was no room for back talking.

Other than Ed's report from the marching grounds, the group had no idea how many gunmen were on the chase for the Colonel, or indeed, if he had even made it as far as the industrial complex. No one wanted to receive contact from Al first; there was only one viable reason why the suit of armour would find Mustang before the rest of him: if he had been gunned down en route.

The team didn't care to acknowledge that they may all be looking for the corpse of the Flame Alchemist.

* * *

Mot couldn't believe it; his master array drawn out in front of him, simple and beautiful, and in the middle of it: Colonel Roy Mustang.

The slack faced alchemist walked to the centre of the array to regard the sleeping figure of his precious quarry. In his slumber, Mustang looked even more fine, with his dark lashes closed against his alabaster skin. Mot knelt beside him and ran his left hand along his cheek, relishing the soft breathing against his palm. Here was his obsession. Here was his salvation, his ambition, his future, his past, his highest highs and lowest lows. Here was a man diametrically opposed to himself: successful, prestigious, handsome, clean, known, acknowledged, feared, loved. A man he could never hope to be.

"You are my most delicious vulnerability, Colonel." He whispered, the fingers of his left hand twitching as they traced the elegant curve of the man's bare neck. "So delectable."

As Mot stood and looked down on his prey, he failed to notice the draft that drifted into the room with the pushing open of the heavy door.

* * *

Ed trotted under the legions of tiny windows adorning the walls of the huge factories, eyes peeled for any sign of activity. He stopped suddenly as he heard gunfire exchanged from further inside the complex. It could have been any of the others, and though Ed's instinct was to run towards the distant battle, he knew that finding Mustang was his priority. Besides, knowing the Colonel's team – Hawkeye in particular – Ed pitied whoever it was who chose to get into a fire fight with them.

Allowing his thoughts to wander as he continued searching, Ed found it hard to believe that only a week ago, he had been fretting about going to the Colonel's birthday party. So much had changed in the past seven days. _He _had changed so much in the past seven days. He had once felt so removed from Mustang's inner circle, feeling always like a nuisance, or a tool, or a child, or a means to one of the Colonel's many mysterious ends. Now though, as he thought on Mustang's sad, haunted eyes recalling the death of his comrades in Ishbal, Ed found a new dread wash across him. He might actually lose that strange, bothersome man. What would his life be when the Colonel rested in the clay? It was unthinkable. It was _inconceivable_ that those words at the marching ground were the last he would exchange with Mustang.

_"Don't you dare die, you overprotective asshole."_

Always looking out for Al, the young alchemist had never really considered that someone might be looking out for him. He supposed it was a credit to Mustang's wiliness that he _hadn't_ noticed until now.

_When I got that note and saw your picture, Ed, I don't know – I couldn't think straight._

Where he had once seen a pompous, annoying sycophant, he now saw depth, nuance, regret...

_They were five years younger than I am now, and will be forever._

Mustang's was a story to rival his own, a mission to rival his own. If recovering Al's human flesh and bone was Ed's goal, then recovering the humanity of Amestris was the Colonel's.

_There is nothing, you are no more, but the world keeps turning._

"You're wrong." Ed whispered as he walked, and he believed it. The Colonel _was _wrong. Ed knew of at least one person for which the world would stop turning if anything happened to Mustang. Ed knew this because he knew how completely his own world would stop if anything happened to Al. He wasn't sure of what the deal was with Hawkeye and Mustang, but he was sure of what the look on her face meant as they swept into the complex. It was the look of someone on the verge of losing the person closest to them. Love was truly a coin with two sides.

His thoughts were brought abruptly to a close as he heard a cry off to his left. Spinning on his heel, Ed leapt into a run, thankful that the cry was not a familiar voice.

* * *

Mot backed away from Mustang, drinking in every line and curve of his motionless form. Even without activating it, he could feel the array biting to be allowed to serve its purpose. He imagined also, that somewhere inside the Colonel's insentient body, the soul of Po-Yang would be stirring, hungry for its release into a world rich with alchemy.

Mot took a steadying breath and lifted his left hand, but the unimaginable stopped it where it was: the awful grating of a familiar voice.

"I barely had to use scouring arrays of my own, you left so many of your silly drawings lying around this filthy city."

Mot cried out, having thought he was alone, and froze at the edge of the array. His heart leapt and a sudden sickness wrenched his stomach. She was dead. Ahu Kamaka was dead, rotting into the floorboards back at his abandoned quarters. She couldn't possibly have found him.

"Y-you're dead." He said with a shaking voice, not daring to turn around, for doing so would only bring a terrible confirmation.

"You were always too weak to deal the final blow, worm. Too stupid to even feel for a pulse."

Mot swallowed thickly and lowered himself slightly, preparing to slam his hand to the array. If only he could reach the circle before she reached him.

"No, no, no..." The Bone Alchemist warned as though talking to a naughty child. Mot squealed again as her hand clasped around his raised fingers. He could never have guessed she was that close, such was her uncanny silence. She leant her face beside his, her heavy bosom pressing against his back. "Now, now, maggot. Play nicely."

Mot risked a look sideways to see the smirking face of his former tutor, and beyond that, her left hand grasping his.

"How did you find me? How did you even find the scouring arrays?" He asked nervously, squeaking a little as the grip tightened around his fingers, blue alchemic light sparking there.

"You left me a token remember?" She said, and raised her right arm in front of his face.

Nausea seized him as he saw his own calcified hand, still welded to Kamaka's, raised in front of him. The lump of bone shone violet in the fading light of day that trickled through the high windows.

"Teacher I-"

Both alchemists were distracted by a groan from the middle of the circle. Mot's alchemy was beginning to wear off on Mustang.

"And there's our little soldier blue." Kamaka purred. "At least you can do some things right, Mot."

The Colonel's eyelids fluttered and he groaned loudly again as he turned onto his side, his boots scuffing weakly at the floor.

"Kamaka..." Mot cautioned as the heavy woman released his hand and took a step towards the awakening soldier.

"Shut up, Mot. I want to get a closer look at this scrap of a Xingese stray."

Mot's stomach lurched again as he looked at the extra length of Kamaka's hand plus his own hanging limply by her side. This was all wrong. This was his revolution. This time was for Mustang and Po-Yang. Only they deserved to grace his masterpiece array.

"Please teacher, with three in the circle it's unstable. The array can support only two souls."

Kamaka smiled devilishly over her shoulder before turning back and tapping Mustang's side with her toe. "Wakey, wakey little bastard."

Mot clasped his throat as a scream raced its way up from his lungs. How dare she defile him? How dare she touch _his _quarry?

"Stop." He said quietly, panic welling in him as the Colonel's eyes flitted open.

Kamaka was bending now, her untainted left hand reaching for Mustang's face.

"Stop." Mot repeated with more urgency as the Colonel's eyes widened and he gasped raggedly at the figure looming over him.

The slamming of the metal door on the inside wall echoed through the warehouse. "Colonel?" A young voice questioned.

Mot turned, horrified at the sound of another voice. A youthful blond in uniform rounded a massive stack of girders.

"Colonel!" The boy cried as he saw Mustang lying sprawled in the centre of the array.

Mot was no idiot, he knew that boy: the Fullmetal Alchemist. There was no time. The young prodigy changed everything. His whole plan was coming undone. He had to act.

"I have to!" He screamed, conscious of the famed alchemist sprinting towards them.

Kamaka was laughing wildly, pulling at the Colonel's collar as he struggled to scramble away on uncooperative limbs.

"Mustang!" Ed called again as he jumped over some loose wiring and continued in his dash to save his superior.

"Fullmetal?" A confused whisper broke from the Colonel's dry lips.

Ed yelled in frustration, urging himself onwards as fast as he could. "Colonel!" His golden eyes shot to Kamaka. "Get away from him!"

Kamaka's laugh rose and filled the cold hollow of the enormous warehouse.

"Ed!" Mustang shouted, his tired eyes growing suddenly alert as his head twisted to see the teenager run straight towards the dangerous array. "Ed no! Stay back!"

"I have to!" Mot screamed again and dropped to his knees beside the circle. "I have to do it now!"

Kamaka grunted as the Colonel kicked out, sweeping her legs from under her. She toppled heavily, Mot's ruined hand snapping off as she braced her fall instinctively with her right.

Ed was only a few seconds away now. Mustang felt the ground beneath him hum with the approaching energy of the powerful youth. Dust rumbled across the pattern and the air was snatched from his lungs where it popped and crackled about him; the array was truly massive.

In what could only have been a second but what felt like an eternity, he saw the familiar symbols of the array and registered Mot's uplifted hand. Any longer and Ed would be close enough to be in danger of getting swept up in the transmutation. There was no way he would let that happen.

Not giving it a second's pause, the Colonel captured the array in his mind, spun onto his stomach and slammed his hands to the floor.

Ed's scream was lost in the roaring of the ferocious transmutation.

* * *

Thanks chaps for reading. Watch this space for Ch 21 coming soon... :D


	21. This Side of the Grave Part I

**Disclaimer: I do not own! Nope...**

As always, thanks to the effervescent (and ever patient!) **Southpaw **for her beta work. Massive thanks to everyone who's continued reading and commenting, honestly muchly muchly appreciated.

Thanks also to **Fudfoodle **and **hand-made-city: **links to there amazing artwork on my profile.

An added merci! to Megami Ze who has listened to me moan, gnash my teeth and grumble throughout the writing of these last few chapters. If you have a chance, check out this writer.

I _did_ say at the beginning of the last chapter that it was Part Uno of a two parter. Turns out due to the size of Ch 21, _it_ has now been split in two, This Side of the Grave Part I and Part II. Both published tonight.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then let's begin...

* * *

Human beings suffer,

they torture one another,

they get hurt and get hard.

No poem or play or song

can fully right a wrong

inflicted or endured.

History says, Don't hope

on this side of the grave.

_From _The Cure at Troy – Seamus Heaney

* * *

Hawkeye breathed deeply, steeling herself for what she was about to do. Seeing a slim Xingese woman stalk the outside of a tired looking warehouse with gun raised, the Lieutenant had no doubt about her intentions. Every bullet in that woman's gun was there for one reason only: to kill her Colonel. Even so, Hawkeye needed that breath in order to finally pull the trigger. In an earlier exchange she had fired without a thought, the adrenalin of a gun battle pushing her on, but shooting someone unaware of their predicament was totally different. It recalled, with a tightening of her chest, her days sniping in Ishbal.

She levelled her weapon, noted the steady look in the assassin's eyes and squeezed the trigger. The shot was perfect, catching the woman straight on the temple. The gunner would surely have died with the thought of killing fixed in her head, and there was a sad circularity to the act that stuck to Hawkeye's thoughts. There was no discretion or mercy for the hunter or the hunted, they were all subject to the same end.

As the Lieutenant drew back from her corner, her radio sprang to life. The signal was ravaged with interference and she had to search a little before a voice could be heard.

"Lieutenant!"

"Edward? Edward, have you found h-" She stopped herself, schooling her thoughts to order. "Are you okay?" Hawkeye could scarcely believe how timorous her voice sounded.

"Yes. No... I – Lieutenant, he-" The radio crackled and sputtered but there was something else, a rumbling in the background. "The welder's shop, Lieutenant. Next to the AVA building. Third warehouse. Transmutation... signal... out..."

_Transmutation, _her mind jolted.

Hawkeye was already running as she shouted into the radio. "Stay safe, Edward. I'm on my way."

Though to what, she was terrified to imagine.

* * *

Ed struggled to his feet, the radio rendered to little more than a squealing box in his hand. He couldn't be certain that Hawkeye got his message but trying the radio again was futile – it was totally defunct in the maelstrom of the transmutation. He could only hope: a small candle lit against the darkness of their fears.

As he stood gasping, clutching his automail arm for some small comfort, he watched the terrifying transmutation with awed, horrified stillness. The whole circle had been enveloped in a cloud of dark, roiling smoke where thrilling bursts of St Elmo's fire caught and exploded. The sound rumbled out across the dusty floor, the vibrations causing the metal fixings to shift and rattle throughout the whole warehouse. Somewhere at the back of the shop, a girder came loose and crashed to the floor. It took some effort not to step forward towards the swirling cloud as the gathering wind tugged at Ed's hair and jacket. The sensation was uncannily similar to that of standing ankle deep in the ocean as the sand shifted underfoot with the steady power of the waves. If Ed was this unsettled from a distance, he could only guess what it was like in the centre of the array. Neither the Colonel nor his adversaries were visible in the chaos but in Ed's mind, the last sight of Mustang lingered on.

If the Colonel activated the same array that had been branded onto his shoulder, then there was almost no telling what the outcome would be. With not three, but four souls encompassed in the transmutation it would tax even the greatest alchemist to leave the reaction unscathed. At best, the four souls would somehow be accommodated in the three bodies, and at worst... Ed struggled to envision the possibilities. An array designed to work with two bodies would very likely compoundits materials _into_ two bodies, regardless of the number of organisms it started with. If that was the case, then the products would be unimaginable horrors. The Colonel's only advantage was that it was he who operated the array and not the strange, raving man. Mustang said he was a brilliant alchemist, now it was really time to prove it. The feat was the scientific equivalent of tight rope walking blindfolded.

"Come on you smug bastard." Ed whispered, readying himself for the smoke to clear and reveal its grim possibilities.

* * *

It was a memory. Of that much he was certain.

A verdant brae shouldered a delicately gurgling stream, all kissed by the dulling hues of a setting sun. Resting there, back propped on the gnarled wood of a hawthorn tree, was Riza Hawkeye. With her short blonde hair and cropped trousers she looked every inch a figure from one of the faded pastoral paintings that adorned the walls of her home.

He remembered this day very well. It was the day before he left for Central, and the army.

"I thought we might eat together. Your father went into the village a little while ago. He shouldn't be too long but it might be nice to sit awhile – just us." He said softly.

She didn't turn around, but her snow white hand moved to brush her fringe from her eyes.

"He won't be back tonight." She returned in little more than a whisper. "He doesn't want to see you go. Neither of us do."

Mustang walked towards her, kicking dark clumps of moss loose as he went. When he reached her, she continued to stare forward across the little brook and far out to where the fields met the golden horizon. He laughed and nudged her with his foot.

"Move over will you?"

She blinked once or twice before coughing and making a space for him to lean against the low bent tree with her.

"You can't stay." She said, the hint of a question to her tone.

He sighed noisily through his nose. "No."

"And I can't follow."

He looked down to see her small hands joined together, knuckles white.

"No." Then again. "No..."

Through a glance, he saw her swallow thickly.

"I don't like that very much at all, Mr Mustang."

Taking a moment to consider, he reached his arm out and pulled her towards him, relishing her smallness against him.

"You insist on calling me that, even now." He chuckled, resting a cheek against her soft hair.

"It helps keep me distant."

He faced her, hurt colouring his features. "From what?"

She looked back at him, incredulity clear in her amber eyes. "From moments like this."

He didn't have much to say to that but then neither did she, and so they continued to sit together until the fields disappeared under the cloak of darkness and the stars lit above them. There was no great epiphany, no sounding of trumpets, but rather like the memory of a once forgotten tune, that evening Roy Mustang realised there was only one star in his firmament and would be forever.

His eyes snapped open.

Around him, he saw the slanted, thickly gullied rooves of low Xingese buildings. Unsure of whether the sight was a memory or a dream, he walked up to the nearest window to get a look at himself, surprised to see that he was not a child but an adult. If he was an adult in Xing, then what he was seeing was evidently a dream.

His attention was caught by the softest sound of singing from further up the dusty street. Moving forward, he followed the voice with a hypnotic sort of remoteness from himself. The further he walked, the more he realised that there was something he should be attending to. Think as he might though, he couldn't remember what that was. A hiss assaulted his hearing and he spun round to discern where it had come from, but the street was empty. He pushed on cautiously.

The singing led him down a messy, rubbish strewn alleyway. He had to duck out of the way as waste water was thrown out a window in front of him. Racing to the open window, he was confused to see the room vacant. In this personless world, he seemed entirely alone except for that voice.

Finally, he reached a tiny building where the owner of the voice must have been situated. He was about to duck his head in when another hiss sounded, this one loud enough to have come from right at his shoulder. He turned again and saw nothing.

"Who's there?" He asked, or tried to at least, but when he spoke, the words that came out were totally different from those he intended. He was speaking Xingese as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Answer me." He said again, stepping away from the house and back into the street. The singing rose in volume, its melody becoming even more beautiful, more tragic.

He looked further down the alley and seeing nothing, turned to glance in the direction from which he came. He jumped at the apparition facing him. Silhouetted against the orange of the sky was a willowy figure dressed in robes. Mustang started forward, sure footed and aggressive.

"Who are you?" He asked.

The figure laughed. "Come here boy. You are tired. You are _tired_ child and in need of sleep. Come here."

Mustang continued in his march.

The singing stopped.

"Zai Sheng." A girl's voice called from back at the house.

He stopped suddenly.

"Zai Sheng." She called again softly.

Despite his years of not remembering, he knew on hearing those words that she was calling out his name, the feeling as instinctive and complete as total submersion. The sensation of being _known_ washed over him, stealing his breath and quickening his heart.

He turned back towards the house.

"I – my name."

"Never mind that. Come here. Let me look at you. Let me look upon you once more, Roy Mustang."

Mustang took one step, then another, unsteadily making his way back to the house and the voice of the girl. He had only made it half way when his arm was grabbed from behind. Spinning out of the grip, he was faced with the figure from before. An old gentleman with long white hair and clouded, unreadable eyes stood regarding him coolly, his robes hanging heavily about him and unsettling the dust at his feet.

"You're Po-Yang."

The figure smiled. "I _was_ Po-Yang."

Mustang stepped backwards, shocked to see strange movements underneath the bared skin of the man's arms and face, the motion like creatures worming their way through his veins.

"You've come to claim me."

"I have. You're soul is being torn from your body as we speak. You have lost child."

The movements underneath the man's flesh became more frantic. Some parts of his skin broke open where the shifting was too violent.

"What's happening to you? Your skin-"

"Zai Sheng! Come in." The girl's voice cut through the air, sharper now.

Mustang looked back over his shoulder at the small, tin roofed house.

"Don't!" Po-Yang said. "Don't go to her. She is wretched."

"Who...?" Mustang started, his question trailing off to silence as he walked towards the house.

His arm was grabbed again, and turning to face Po-Yang this time, he yelped in shock at how much the man had changed in those few seconds. Something was swelling up from beneath his robes causing the fabric to stretch and ripple. Large lumps were pushing out from the space between his neck and shoulders as the man's skin continued to crawl with whatever dark creatures resided underneath.

"You are ruining everything." The elder man hissed as the skin on the back of his hand broke revealing a dark, writhing mass underneath. "Get out of the way, Mustang."

Mustang continued to watch the creature struggle for freedom, suppressing a gag as a dark head revealed itself. A pink tongue shot into the dusty air.

"Serpent." Mustang whispered. He met Po-Yang's dull, bitter eyes. "Ruining what? Ruining what, Po-Yang? For what is _this_ worth?"

"The harvest." Po-Yang grinned knowingly, his open mouth allowing another small snake to squirm free of him. It grew in size as it started its crawl towards Mustang.

"My darling!" The girl's voice came again, terrified and urgent.

Mustang looked back, wanting to retreat but fearful to turn his back on the transforming figure of Po-Yang. By now, the lumps had grown even greater in size and were taxing the limits of his clothing.

"_What_ harvest? What are you talking about?" The Colonel asked, staggering away from the approaching serpent, now at least two feet in length.

"Of alchemy. Of everything. I am reaping what I sowed Mustang. Alchemy is everywhere now. It all belongs to me, yours and that little blond's. I _will_ have it all."

As the ancient alchemist spoke, his voice became more and more distorted by his twisting features. The skin of his entire face was now boiling with movement beneath it. First his forehead cracked, a legion of tiny snakes tumbling to the dirt floor, then his neck, then with a sickening crack, his head collapsed in on itself. His body shook, flinging the creatures all around it, some landing on Mustang's arms, chest and shoulders. There they bit and writhed frantically, trying to break through his uniform and gain access to his skin. Drawing his hand into his sleeve, he batted them away, yelling and throwing himself one way then the other. When he was clear of them, he looked up to see that the man's face was no more. In its place was the head of a serpent as black as night. Flanking it, like a monster of myth were two more half formed snake's heads. Six red eyes stared at him, hatred radiating from them like steam from a hot road after a rain shower. The middle head hissed, showing the pale pink of it's massive, vicious maw.

Mustang was running before he even had time to shake the image of the creature from his mind. He bounded up the steps, his boots thudding hollowly on the frail wood, and ran into the tiny house. He skidded to a stop as the ceiling and furniture in the room shot upwards about him. He thought he was falling but never quite managed to hit the ground. It took him another moment's thought before he realised he had shrank.

Mustang held two tiny, dirty hands in front of him and turned them over curiously. He issued a neat, shallow gasp when he saw what was beyond them. Sitting on a stool was a slight girl, pretty and raven haired. She stared at him with black, shining eyes, holding his awed gaze as a knowing smile shaped her mouth. She held out her hands in invitation. She wasn't wretched at all; she was beautiful.

Mustang looked back towards the open space of the door.

"Zai Sheng. Come here." She said gently, leaving her place on the stool to kneel on the floor. She smiled warmly, her head cocked in obvious surprise at his reticence.

He scuffed his bare little feet on the floor, feeling tears well up in him. He sniffled and wiped clumsily at his nose.

"What's wrong? What happened son?"

Son.

His head shot up at the word. A girl who couldn't be more than twenty had called him son; it was strange but he knew it was the truth. She was his mother and this house was where it all began. He glanced over his shoulder again and uttered a nonsense noise of uncertainty. Then looking about him nervously, he wandered towards her on young, unsteady legs. As soon as he reached her, she scooped him up in her arms and spun once in a small circle before holding him tightly against her.

"Why are you crying?" She whispered against his hair.

"A snake." He whispered back, the scene feeling less like a dream and more like a memory. Where the line was, he couldn't be sure.

The girl tutted and stroked circles on his crown with her thumb. "Was it very big?"

Mustang nodded energetically, whining slightly as his emotions got the better of him.

"Was it scary?"

More nodding.

"It cannot harm you."

Mustang pulled back and looked at her incredulously.

She laughed and cuffed his cheek. "It _cannot_. You are my son, little Zai. I won't let it harm you."

She lowered him from her embrace, chuckling more when he drew his feet up and hovered above the floor, not ready to leave her.

"Zai Sheng..." She smiled. "Stand up Roy."

After a disconcerting moment of darkness, Mustang was standing in front of her in full uniform, a man once again. He towered over the delicate girl now, but still she looked at him with such compassion, pity almost, that he felt small nonetheless. She took his hand in hers and he noticed the bullet wound for the first time since arriving in the strange other-world.

"You're my mother." Mustang said gently, struck by her freckles, her black eyes and upturned lip. So much detail, so true and solid in front of him. "Are you real?"

She squeezed his hand and a bolt of pain shot up his arm.

"Hang on to yourself, Zai Sheng." She said as a breeze blew her hair about her in a soft, dark halo.

A tremor shook the building, causing dust and small stones to fall loose. The solitary window rattled in its fixing.

"I don't understand. What's happening? The serpent..."

The girl's expression darkened as she looked past him towards the door. Then raising herself on her toes, she touched the back of his neck and lowered his head towards her. A sad reminiscence painted her features and sighing warmly, she placed a tender kiss on his forehead before lowering herself back to her soles.

"So much taller than your mother." She said with mock annoyance. She turned her head and surveyed him. "I never wanted to leave you but-" she looked thoughtful and nodded resolutely, "I'm glad I did. You are a great man now, a _leader_ of men. I am proud. I am very proud and I love you very much."

The house shook violently, almost as if it was struck from outside. The window shattered in its frame and a tired shelf fell from the wall with a loud clatter. A roaring wind had erupted around the house, tearing through the open space of the door and racing about the room. Mustang was finding it difficult to hear.

"I love you." She said again and drove her thumb into his open wound.

Mustang yelled out and tried to draw his hand away but it was no good, his mother held fast.

"Keep hold of yourself son. My son. I am so, so proud."

"You – you can't be. You don't understand. I've done such terrible, unforgivable things."

She spoke with wonder, her eyes wide with excitement. "But you _will do_ such brilliant things. You had to sin, Zai Sheng: it was your own sacrifice for daring to imagine a different future. Even in your darkest moments I have loved you, and so has she."

Her words were almost lost in the raging of the wind, and to his horror, Mustang saw that it was starting to find purchase on her. Her very essence was beginning to be blown free, tiny particles coming loose only to be caught up in the whirling air.

"No! Wait!" He cried out again as more pain raced into his hand and up his arm. What was she doing? "Wait!"

"You are _loved_. So proud..."

She was little more than a shadow now, a beautiful silhouette taken by the gale.

"This is good bye, Zai Sheng."

In seconds, she was no more and Mustang was alone again. A panel in the wall was torn loose and flung inwards, the space revealing an army of serpents writhing and seething on the outside of the house, a black sea of scales and flashing eyes. Another came loose with a wrenching squeal of stressed wood before it too snapped free. The house was being pulled apart: the tin roofing bent back and cast upwards into the burnt sky, the floor boards shuddering and collapsing about him.

It was a feeling he could only compare to travelling backwards on a train. He was dragged back by some unseen force, the pain in his hand almost unbearable now. As he left the bizarre, abandoned Xingese town, he was graced with one last image:

His mother, youthful and wild, standing in an open street while about her ankle was entwined a pitch black serpent. Her right foot, bare and pale, had crushed its head.

* * *

Ed transmuted his right arm into a sword as a figure emerged from the dwindling smoke. He swallowed and tossed his head, readying himself for whatever it was he would meet. His mouth fell open when he saw Mustang stumble forward untidily, gripping his right wrist and staring in amazement at his hand.

"Mustang!" Ed shouted, inching forward on his feet. He was still wary of the transmutation and of the possibility that it may not be Mustang at all.

The Colonel didn't appear to hear him but was still transfixed on his hand. Suddenly, a laugh broke from him: an incongruous, uncharacteristic sound in the massive warehouse.

"Hey Colonel." Ed groused, getting a little closer. "Hey you! Whoever you are!"

Now the Colonel looked up, still clasping his hand. He was smiling, actually smiling. There was no way Mustang was in there.

"Hurry up and talk already so I can make sure you're not Mustang and kick your ass."

"I'm me." The man said to no one in particular, his eyes searching and distant, like he had just woken up. He looked at his hand again. "I'm Mustang."

He held up his bloody palm as if it was evidence and made a confirming 'hmm' noise. Behind him, the swirling mists faltered and died down even more.

"She used my hand."

"Huh?" Ed uttered, lowering his weapon – just a little.

"The pain tethered me. She used my hand."

"Colonel?"

"You don't know how happy I am to see this on the end of _my _arm." Mustang said, gesturing to the mangled extremity.

Ed rolled his eyes. With that 'more than odd' comment, the soul inhabiting the body was almost definitely Mustang's. "Yeah, great. Now can you put that thing away; it's making me queasy."

Mustang grinned and hearing the cracking of the dying transmutation, turned to look at it. He continued to study the reaction as he backed towards Ed whose weapon was raised again warily at the approach.

Turning back, he met Ed's steady golden eyes before looking at the blade. He prodded its tip with the pad of his forefinger.

"You planning to use that on me, kid?" Mustang quipped, then clenched his bloody hand under his left arm to quell the throbbing.

"Wouldn't be the first time..." The teen groused.

Mustang's eyes darkened. "That reminds me..."

Ed looked up, lowering his arms to his side. "What?"

Mustang leant forward and pointed his finger in the younger man's face. "What the hell were you doing running towards the array like that!"

Ed balked, his face turning red and his temper flaring. "Me? What the hell were _you_ doing activating an array that had you babbling like an idiot when it was etched into your damn shoulder!"

"At least I studied the bloody thing before rushing headfirst into it. It's exactly because of the array on my _damn_ shoulder I was able to walk away from that in one piece!" Mustang lied, but Ed wasn't to know that.

Ed scoffed. "Sure it wasn't your giant ego that saved you?"

"Size matters, Fullmetal." Mustang smirked.

"Yeah, I saw it on the calling cards you left in all the phone booths around headquarters."

"Are you tall enough to reach those?"

"I'm tall enough to run you through and tell the others you didn't make it out of that thing with your own soul in ta-."

"My soul..." Mustang interrupted, his face changing from a mocking smirk to stone cold seriousness in a split second. Turning awkwardly, he looked back at the clearing mists. The gushing wind had died down to light breeze and the noise had all but fallen away. He touched lightly at his chest and his dark eyes found Ed's, dancing back and forth brightly as they registered the new lightness in him. If he was standing here in his own skin, absent of another, then that meant that Po-Yang, Mot and the larger woman had been subjected to the transmutation from which he was expelled. Looking at the back of his hand again, he couldn't help but wonder just what would have become of him if his mother, or something within himself acting as his mother, had failed to intervene. He knew that his enquiry would be answered with the clearing of the mist.

"Po-Yang... he's gone?" Ed asked, worry beginning to seep into him as the dissipating smoke started to reveal a solid shape.

"Yeah..." Mustang drawled out, absently rubbing at his wound. "But to where? Or what?"

Both alchemists stood and watched the room clear and both shirked abruptly as a harrowing scream tore out from the dark, undulating mass sprawled in the middle of the circle.

"Fullmetal... You didn't happen to bring a pair of my gloves with you did you?" Mustang asked, licking his lips and keeping his eyes fixed on the steaming lump before him. Something long and wiry broke free from it and swung madly in the air.

"No... didn't really have the time to-"

"Fancy transmuting something for me to, you know, hurt things with?"

Another rasping and many layered cry shattered the eerie stillness of the warehouse. Ed became acutely aware of Mustang panting heavily beside him. His eyes wandered upward to study the man. Something strange shifted in the Colonel's countenance; something anxious and very dark. It wasn't dissimilar to the face he wore when he flung the uniform at Ed, but it was more focussed now, more intent. Ed was glad he wasn't the recipient of that fathomless gaze. A bead of sweat ran along the man's brow and slid to catch in his dark lashes – he didn't blink.

"Eh..."

Mustang licked his lips again, and Ed noted how his muscles were trembling in waves across his pale skin.

"Maybe you should sit this one out, Col-"

Mustang quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head towards the young alchemist, eyes still glued to the circle. It was difficult to make out in the dim light of the warehouse, but it looked as though the mass was lumbering sideways in a struggle to stand. Ed's stomach dropped when he saw the flash of not two, but six red eyes breaking through the encroaching darkness. Just what exactly had Mustang created?

"Okay, okay..." Ed mumbled and trotted over to some rough iron fixings. Clapping his hands, he touched the dense metal and fashioned one into a near perfect replica of a military issue sword. "You know how to use one of these, Mustang?"

The Colonel didn't answer but simply held out his hand. Ed winced as he passed the heavy weight into Mustang's injured right hand before the man transferred it into his left.

"You have a plan, C-" Ed started but was cut off as the shape reared up, the faint light from the lofty windows finally revealing it to them.

Standing at least eight feet in the air, it was truly a horror. Ed was right: Mustang having been one of the bodies to escape the transmutation with his soul in tact had left the array with little option but to make do with the remaining materials. Somehow, Mustang had managed to crush the two bodies and three souls together to form a monster fitting of his darkest imaginings. It swayed on two thin legs while two smaller, redundant limbs hung limply from its hip joints. A thin torso stretched up in a twisted collection of exposed ribs and bleeding organs to where the neck branched off to three heads, each a maddening blend of human and reptile. Oversized fangs broke the faces of the beast while thin, useless tongues lolled grotesquely from drooling mouths. Ed recognised the gleaming, smooth parts of the monster as being the calcified materials of the female alchemist's work. Those parts wanting of flesh were supplemented with stringy tendrils of smoke that billowed about the creature dramatically, the largest being a tail-like appendage that shot out and shone yellow-grey in the dim light. Recognising the vaguest resemblance of the two alchemists in the outermost heads, Ed supposed the middle head must be the altered visage of Wei Po-Yang. It was that soul's burnished red eyes that held the attention of the Flame Alchemist, and Ed understood immediately why the Colonel had fallen into his feral, obsessive silence.

It was akin to being faced with his own soul in the body of another. After years of housing the mysterious passenger, the Colonel was now faced with his own impossibility wrought into this terrifying creature of his clever, dangerous mind. Ed knew from experience that there was only one way the human mind could comprehend such a paradox: by killing the 'other'.

Clearly, the beast perceived the walking contradiction of Mustang at the very same moment, as the three gruesome faces twisted into angry messes of hanging flesh and protruding teeth. Two of the heads screeched while that on the left, seeming to be that of the slim male, shed thick bloody tears and whined pitifully.

"Mustang..." Ed said, scared to move in case he inspired action in the older man.

"Ed." Mustang replied curtly, weighing the sword in his left hand.

"You been keeping that thing inside you all this time, Colonel?"

"Guess so..."

"Wow." Ed deadpanned. "That uniform sure hides a lot."

The Colonel's trance broke and he turned his eyes to see Ed standing stiffly with his blade at the ready.

"You're telling me..." He turned back, took a breath and looked for the world like he was about to slump to sitting. Instead, he skipped forward and broke into a fierce sprint, sword stretched out to his side.

Ed swore and ran forward too, struggling to keep up with the Colonel despite his younger years and better health.

The creature, seeing their approach, yowled and lurched forward on its skinny legs, four pale arms flailing for balance.

"Zai Sheng!" The middle head rasped, its fiery eyes following the Colonel as he darted sideways.

"I need a run up, Fullmetal!" The Colonel shouted as he circled Po-Yang.

Ed nodded and dropped to his knees, clapping his hands as he fell and slamming them to the cold floor. Where the Colonel ran, a walkway raised out of the floor levelling him with the creature's torso, then its heads. The younger man cursed as the Colonel lost his footing and stumbled slightly on the high, thin wall. The raging beast swung wildly, tottering on its weak legs and following Mustang's path. As the female head snapped out with her long, gnarled fangs, the Colonel appeared to faint, falling sideways off the platform.

"No!" Ed shouted but then found he was smiling wildly with the questionable guts of the man.

What Ed had presumed to be a fatal error, was actually a strike at the monstrous triad. The Colonel had used the unmatchable force of gravity to slice his alchemised sword through the creature's neck. Having succeeded in catching only half of it, Mustang scrambled away as the neck gave some and the head fell sideways, a shower of black blood spraying with hisses from the gaping wound. Ed fought the urge to cover his ears at the creature's roaring as he darted forward to slot in with the Colonel's assault. Both alchemists slipped in the tar-like blood, Ed managing to clap again, transmuting a thick beam of rough hewn floor to slam into the monster, knocking it backwards off its frail legs and onto its rump.

The Colonel struggled to his feet, still slipping some and laughed at Ed's attack.

"So this is where all those masonry bills come from, huh?"

Ed huffed and moved over to help Mustang steady himself, still shocked by the wild look in his eyes. Ed wondered if there was more to Mustang's sharp breaths and dilated pupils. Perhaps the savageness was part soul-paradox and part morbid homecoming for a soldier who had lived through a horrendously violent conflict. Either way, it was something Ed never thought he would see, but there again, the week had been full of surprises. Nonetheless, he to admit it: there was something strangely exhilarating about fighting side by side with his commander.

"Shut up, bastard." He grumbled.

Mustang wiped the sword and cast a darkly humoured look at Ed. "It's good! I'm glad we're paying you for _something_. Ha!"

Ed didn't have a chance to process the oddly light remark as the monster recovered, dead head of Kamaka bumping upside down against the pink, fleshy scales of the neck. Po-Yang's eyes flared as they found the Colonel again. The monster, seeing the efficacy of Mustang's attack, lunged forward then allowed its legs to give out, gravity pulling it to the ground with dead speed. Ed threw himself to one side of the careening body while Mustang fell to the other. Using all four of its hands for leverage, the monster pushed itself up, saliva hanging in thick strings from its mouths.

"Zai Sheng Shi!" The middle head screamed in frustration, spit fluttering out with the force of its roar.

"Why does he keep saying that?" Ed panted.

"It's my name." Mustang answered gruffly, dodging the smoke-tail as it swiped with a 'whooshing' sound in his direction.

Ed stamped his foot. "_What!_" Huge, reptilian monsters notwithstanding he continued to be shocked by the odd smattering of facts issuing from the Colonel.

Mustang merely shrugged. His eyes shot open as he saw the tail rebound and whip round towards Ed.

"Down!" He cried.

Ed rolled sideways and was on his feet again in an instant. Racing under the creature as it padded about him awkwardly, he thrust upwards with his sword and cut a long, black trench in the bone-skin of one of the right arms.

Po-Yang and Mot wailed in unison and swung one way, then the other, trying to find purchase on the diminutive alchemist.

As Ed exited from under the rump, Mustang approached the creature from the front. His eyes locked onto Po-Yang's and he froze where he stood with chest heaving.

Ed cleaned off his blade a little, sure that the Colonel was continuing to fight. When he heard nothing but silence, he looked up from the bloodied mess of his blond hair to see what was keeping Mustang.

From behind the monster, Ed could see his commander standing stock still, an unfamiliar emotion on his face. It was something beyond hatred, beyond fear, beyond anxiety and pride, far far past anything Ed had ever seen. He was reminded of the old war horse the Rockbell's had been forced to put down when it broke its leg. There was a wild eyed raging there too as the horse kicked and whinnied, its foaming flanks shivering with its furious emotion.

Judging from the leaping of the muscles in the beast's back, it was experiencing the same sensations. Ed could only compare it to two strong magnets placed against each other by an unseen hand. But there weren't two... there were three: the other alchemist, Mot.

"Colonel!" Ed shouted, stumbling round the side of the beast, now as still as a statue.

Mustang didn't answer. He was standing absolutely immobile, his sword hand still outstretched. It could almost be a photograph, almost, but it wasn't. Eventually, as Ed knew there would be, there was movement. By then it was too late to break the Colonel's stupor.

Mot, still in control of himself, swung the tail round to snatch at the Colonel's ankle. Ed hurried forward in time to see Mustang yanked off his feet, iron sword rattling as it hit the ground, followed by the bright, punctuating crack of his head on the concrete.

Ed slid on the black blood as he made his way towards Mustang, but by then the trance – like the eye contact – had been broken.

Po-Yang's mouth flew open and he roared with delight as he fell forward onto his four arms to crouch with leering face and snapping teeth above Mustang. Ed, quick and clever, managed to get under the beast as it fell. With one knee resting gracelessly across the Colonel's chest, he punched his automail arm up where it punctured Mot's neck. Ed gagged and cursed as a thick torrent of blood spilled out over his head, coating both him and the Colonel. He felt Mustang shift beneath him, all three figures now sliding and moaning in the slick puddle of blood. Mot groaned and sputtered above them, his eyes looking very human all of a sudden, despite their frightening red hue.

Po-Yang stretched his neck far back, the boney white of it glistening frightfully and issued two sharp barks. His ruby eyes slid back to see Mustang, and then Ed. A grin shaped his reptilian maw.

"Mine."

* * *

Cheers!


	22. This Side of the Grave Part II

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

Part Second...

* * *

The innocent in jails

beat on their bars together.

A hunger-striker's father

stands in the graveyard dumb.

The police widow in veils

faints at the funeral home.

History says, Don't hope

on this side of the grave.

_From _The Cure at Troy – Seamus Heaney

* * *

Hawkeye, having radioed the others, wasn't surprised to hear Breda's frantic call from behind her. She splashed to a stop in a mucky puddle, waiting with a sinking stomach for the redhead and Falman to catch up.

"Ed find him?" Breda asked, panting and looking like he was about to collapse at any moment.

Hawkeye only nodded, then started off again, gun drawn and mind racing.

_Transmutation._ The disconnect of being apart from him was startling.

_Transmutation._ That one word was enough to drown out those of her comrades about her.

_Transmutation_. He may already be gone. He may be dead. Him and Ed both...

_Transmutation. _What would she find when she got there? Her Colonel turned monster? An ancient alchemist wearing the skin of the man who smirked and ghosted kisses across her neck? An evil, bitter soul who stole the life of the one person stubborn enough to make the country heed to morality?

In the shadow of these dangers, her heart quivered with the deadly weight of her promise to Mustang. She would fail him if she didn't deal the final blow.

Her gun felt impossibly heavy in her hand.

* * *

A boney hand, tipped with thin black claws shot out and grabbed Ed by the hair.

"Mine!" Po-Yang shouted. "All all mine!"

Ed yelled and kicked as he was pulled upwards with Po-Yang as he stood. The red eyed serpent cocked its head and sniffed, a satisfied mewing coming from its mouth.

"You are a _powerful_ little boy and you are mine."

"Fullmetal!" The Colonel called hoarsely, clearing his eyes of the thick, nauseating blood.

Po-Yang lapped his thin, almost muscle-less tongue against Fullmetal's cheek and ear, relishing the taste of his own blood on the boy. Ed kicked against the exposed purple innards of the monster but Po-Yang remained oblivious to the pain, only smiling smugly as Mot whimpered and spat beside him. After indulging in a pleasured smacking noise, the creature open his mouth, fixed it about Ed's and sucked.

Ed's eyes sprang to white at the assault, his hand and blade punching, scrabbing and tearing at the monster's arm that held him aloft. Po-Yang only chuckled lightly and pulled in another breath. That was when Ed felt it: something uncurling in his very middle.

The harvest.

His alchemy.

His soul.

"Ed!" Mustang shouted, stumbling clumsily to his feet.

Ed shouted through the mouth pressed to his and kicked out again as another massive pull tore against his consciousness. Stars began dancing in front of him and it slowly dawned on him with an alarming giddiness that he could no longer move his legs.

Mustang fell once on the slippery blood before regaining his balance. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Po-Yang, face fixed to Ed's, was literally sucking the life out of the boy.

_This_ was his harvest? This thievery? This adultery, fetid and cruel? His fury at the ancient being re-ignited. To think he was the conduit for such an evil. No matter his grand dreams and ambitions, he was so close to unleashing this ugly, selfish horror on the world. It wouldn't do, not in the slightest.

He didn't care if Po-Yang's intentions were conceived in innocence all those hundreds of years ago. He didn't care that it was probably a life inside _his_ mind that drove the Xingese man to madness. The world had moved on, Po-Yang had missed his chance and Mustang was about to teach him a lesson about State Alchemists.

"Po-Yang!" He called, swinging his sword sideways so that black blood whipped out from its tip. Both Mot and Po-Yang's reddened eyes canted towards him.

"You see that boy?" With his blade, Mustang gestured to the small form of Ed.

Po-Yang's mouth left Ed's, incandescent light drifting upwards from his cracked gums. Ed was unmoving in his clutches.

"Jealous?" The creature mocked, then ran a messy tongue over Ed's neck.

Mustang pointed the sword at Po-Yang and spat out a mouthful of spittle and blood.

"Yeah." He said through a sombre twisting of his mouth. "He's mine, actually. So you can forget about your fucking 'harvest'."

Mustang rushed forward as Po-Yang threw the teen sideways. He landed hard on his shoulder, rolling twice before stopping. The ruined fiend was already lunging forward, heads hanging limply either side of him as he struck out with deadly fangs.

The Colonel ducked then stood with a massive, bracing intake of breath, driving the blade straight into the monster's misshapen torso. Po-Yang shrieked and slapped a clawed hand around the Colonel's jaw, but the man did not relent. Instead, he spoke through gritted teeth as he wrenched the sword back and drove it in again and upwards, cleaving apart the front portion of the monster's body.

"Everyone writes State Alchemists off as sissies who can't take a piss without an array. But here's the-" He pulled the sword out and drove it in again as the thumb of the clawed hand scraped a deep trough across his cheek. "Here's the thing, Wei Po-Yang. Even the most junior soldiers complete their bayonet training, and let me tell you, it's not something you forget."

Po-Yang howled and peeled his hand off Mustang's face before slamming it down again more forcefully on his shoulder. The Colonel didn't flinch as the claws dug through his uniform and into his flesh. He only grunted a little and pulled the sword out again, then bending low, he thrust it skyward underneath the beast's mismatched ribcage.

"You drive your bayonet into your opponent's belly first, then have a good scramble around; you have to catch as many organs as you can, you see..." He huffed out a breath, hissing as Po-Yang's damaged right arm caught him roughly across the back of the head. "Then you drive the blade up under their ribcage and puncture their heart. But where your heart is, Po-Yang, is anyone's guess. Hard lines old man – if you weren't such a monster, you might have been dead by now."

With that, Mustang grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and pushed with all his might, sinking the blade until he was wrist deep in the monster's torso. Po-Yang thrashed, screamed and toppled backwards, ill-assorted limbs flapping as he went. All Mustang had to do was let go, steady eyes noting the twisted aesthetic of the tumbling mass.

He stepped forward, his limbs feeling heavy as they thrummed with adrenalin. The two heads of Mot and Po-Yang turned in agony as he approached, crimson orbs blinking in the near dark of the warehouse.

Mustang looked down, black eyes cold and curious in their appraisal of this creature of his own making. What a terrible, wonderful thing the human mind was – capable and willing of such morbid atrocities. In creating this beast, Mustang had rid himself of some of his own monstrosity and he did not miss the irony of revelling in such a thing.

He knelt beside the dying monster and flinched when a hand reached up and touched tenderly at his cheek. It was Mot. His wet eyes fixed sombrely on Mustang's own told him that much.

"I have erred. I thought... would bring me closer to you..." The rasping, inhuman voice uttered tiredly. "So violent and so graceful."

"Graceful." Mustang repeated thoughtfully and drew his pistol from his holster. By his estimation, he had two bullets left. He truly pitied the Mot character; wasn't he just a stupid man, blinded by fanaticism? There were enough of those types in Central and no one deserved a fate such as Mustang gave him. Removing the clawed hand from his face with his left hand, he squeezed the not-quite-man's palm, and fired through a wince with his right.

He turned to Po-Yang, his eyes darkening as his uncanny need to kill this 'other' raced to the fore. But he, unlike that archaic alchemist, would not be subject to his carnal cravings. He was a scientist after all and exercised choice; reason.

He _chose_ to be cruel.

Looking once at the buried sword, he stood and swallowed.

"Suffer." He said cleanly.

Po-Yang blinked, pain and something more fragile showing in his serpentine eyes. A more tender emotion shaped his monstrous features: an entreaty, a rescued humanity.

"Mercy." The creature whispered.

Mustang paused and looked at Ed lying unmoving on the ground.

"Alive..." Po-Yang muttered, his heavy eyes following Mustang's to rest on the unconscious teen. "He is alive."

Mustang nodded and looked at his wounded hand, remembering the small form of his mother as she wrenched him from what could have been his own mutation.

"You have lived so long, toiled behind my eyes just to die like _this_. Look at you..." He said, emotion clear in his voice now. The adrenalin was leaving him, pushed out by the realisation of what he had performed in that transmutation; how close he had come to a similar fate. He didn't think anymore, merely reached back and fired. After centuries, Po-Yang's death was a whimper in the chilling fall of dark.

"Pathetic." Mustang muttered.

He tripped forward and knelt down next to Ed, managing to excavate an ironic smile at the thin line of drool that slipped from the corner of the boy's mouth.

"Hey." Mustang said gently and placed his hand underneath the teen's head.

Ed's eyelids flickered and his fingers opened and closed a few times. He grumbled something incoherent and tried to turn on his side.

Mustang sighed and bent to pick Ed up, though he was unsure if he would be able to accomplish such a feat. His fingers had just touched the boy's shoulders when a hard voice sounded behind him.

"That's enough. Don't touch him, Sir."

Hawkeye.

Mustang sighed as he took in Ed's slack face and bloodied hair. It was another beat before he realised what the whole scene must have looked like to anyone who happened upon them. There he was drenched in blood with his fingers practically at Ed's throat. He clenched his eyes shut before he reached for Ed again, if only to wake him.

"Hey!" The voice of Breda sounded. "Stand up."

Mustang rolled his eyes and called back over his shoulder. "It's me. Mustang."

Hawkeye spoke with confidence and poise ringing clearly in her words, though Mustang knew she must be quaking inside. He knew _he_ was.

"I'm sorry, Sir. We can't take your word for that. Please stand up."

Havoc and Knox stumbled through the door, the elder man hanging onto the blond's shoulder lest he fall where he stood. Havoc, seeing Hawkeye, Falman and Breda with guns trained on the Colonel raised his also, not questioning the Lieutenant's judgement.

Knox's eyes darted between the loyal subordinates and the bloodied Colonel bent over an unconscious Ed.

"What's going on? Mustang!" He called.

Mustang wiped his brow and stood shakily. He turned slowly to see four pistols trained at his head. Any one of them could shoot a ten cenz coin from twenty feet, and he knew every one of them cared enough to exercise that skill on him if they needed to. He raised his hands, glancing down at Ed who moaned and shifted at his feet.

"Please step away, Colonel." Hawkeye said solidly, her gun arm steady.

Mustang looked at the wretched body of Po-Yang off behind him to his left.

"I'm Mustang. I - that thing-" he raised his arm to point at the beast but a shot fired at the ceiling stopped him dead.

"Please don't move your hands, Sir." Havoc said, readjusting his footing to steady himself in the awful circumstances.

They had all prepared themselves for this: the chance that though Mustang's body remained, his soul had been cast off, replaced with Po-Yang's. The actuality of it was appalling.

Mustang nodded and stared hard at the floor. He felt five pairs of eyes on him, all begging for an answer, but his tired mind was struggling for a way to convince his men he hadn't hurt Ed.

He shook his head. "I didn't hurt him. That creature behind me... I'm Mustang, damn it! Ask me anything and I'll prove it."

His voice echoed out in the warehouse, the reverberations enough to mask the single gunman who entered the shop from the back. He scurried inwards, low and keen eared, to hide behind a bundle of girders. From his intelligence, the gunman knew there was no way Mustang's men would disobey him without good reason. He would bet that Po-Yang had already been brought forward. Little did the gunman know that their readiness to doubt their leader was what made them so faithful, and so lovingly watchful.

"Our information states that Po-Yang has been with the Colonel since birth. Therefore, he would know every detail the Colonel knows and every single aspect of his personality." Falman said simply, without judgement or anger. It really pissed Mustang off.

"Aw, shut up Falman!" He snapped and at the risk of taking a bullet to the knee, undid his belt holster, allowing his pistols to clatter to the floor. "They were empty anyway..." He grumbled, then looked skyward searching the heavens for some flimsy support in what was almost certainly an act of oblique, ironic suicide.

He stepped forward with feigned confidence, his stomach lurching at the sound of four pistols shifting in highly trained hands. His eyes searched the faces of each of his men, including Knox, before they landed on Hawkeye.

"Please stop, Sir."

"No." Mustang said simply and continued his slow moving forward, his heart breaking to see she was tearing up. He knew she had readied herself for this moment, in the darkest recesses of her mind, since that odd, familiar day in his office when he entrusted his back to her.

"_Mustang._" Havoc petitioned. "You have to understand, how do we know it's really you?"

The Colonel didn't break eye contact with his Lieutenant and she too held the stare, each fearful that the moment it was broken, the world would end. In a way, they weren't far wrong.

"You don't. You can't." He answered, only a few feet from Hawkeye now.

Hawkeye wiped at her eye with her shoulder, her hand beginning to quiver ever so. Still Mustang continued, steadying his breath and quieting his tumultuous thoughts. He had to believe he could make it to her, that that was all he need do. He knew, _knew_ that when she faced him she would understand.

"Stop where you are!"

"Just stop Colonel!"

"You're going to get yourself _killed,_ you damn brat! Stop Mustang. Will you stop!"

Mustang continued, pushing his thumb into the small cavity of his wounded palm to help ground him to the reality that at any moment, one of his men might take a shot at him. He was almost surprised they hadn't already. Maybe he was getting through to them...

Hawkeye fired, the bullet glancing off the ground in front of him before slicing off to the right. He didn't flinch, his focus solely on her resolute, terrified and pained eyes.

"Please..." She whispered, a tear breaking free and rolling down her cheek. "Please..."

The others looked on, all deathly pale and dreading the thought that they might be the one to fire a fatal bullet at their Colonel.

Ed rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto all fours, shaking his head to clear it of his muddled thoughts and the congealing blood of the three-headed beast.

In a few more steps, with startling clarity Mustang stopped a slim two feet away from where Hawkeye stood. Her pistol shook before her, her eyes darting back and forth, searching his dark look for the truth of his character, for the sign that would confirm he was still with them.

He bowed suddenly, the act eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the whole team. Closing his eyes, he reached out and took both her hands in his, rocked by the freezing cold of the metal. He wrapped his fingers about hers and leant his forehead against the cool barrel of the gun, struggling to contain himself as he felt her tremble in his grasp. He thought on her back, scarred and beautiful. And of his back, open and vulnerable to her always.

"Don't be afraid." He said finally. "You know what this means?"

He couldn't see her, but he knew she was nodding: _trust._

Ed was on his feet, unsteady as he was. "Hey!" He called. "What are you doing?"

He started a slow jog forward, shouting his appeals to the team members.

"Fuck Ed..." Havoc murmured, struggling to keep a grip on events. He lowered his gun and pressed a palm against his forehead.

Mustang looked up through his fringe to meet Hawkeye's wide, unsettled eyes. He smiled, recalling the night in his home when she first agreed to stay. It seemed like years ago, as far back as their meeting under the hawthorn tree. But at that time, back when her father was still alive, he was leaving her – this was different, it would be from now on. He would allow no more leave taking.

"I shouldn't have to persuade you." He said, echoing the words he had spoken back at his house that night. He finally dared to lower her hands with the most gentle pressure, the gun moving with them.

Hawkeye smiled down at him; a sort of angry, scolding smile, and dropped her hands to her sides. The revolver clanged heavily as it hit the ground. _It was him, it was him, it was him_: the words ran through her mind with a crazed, unprecedented joy.

Mustang nodded, still holding her gaze and began to stand.

"I shouldn't have to, but I w-"

The shot changed everything. Piercing, cruel and unambiguous in its purpose, it filled the whole warehouse and collapsed the state of all sense and reason about them.

There were none present who could refute the fact that the death of Roy Mustang was slow and obscene.

The bullet bit into Hawkeye's lower shoulder where it remained, fizzing hotly against her flesh. She stumbled back and landed without ceremony on her backside, her hand flying up to grasp at the burning hole.

Havoc, spotting the fleeing back of the the gunman fired three times and dropped the man mid stride.

Breda and Falman ran to the back of the warehouse, guns drawn in search of other assailants and to check on the fallen assassin. Neither made a comment as they passed a monstrous, sagging heap of flesh and bone strewn across the floor, the death-tang of blood still hot in the air.

But it was Knox who noticed the dreadful development first. The strangest thing had alerted him to it: that Mustang hadn't run to her.

Instead, the young Colonel was tripping away from them, his right arm hanging low while a dark stain began to colour his back. He was clutching at something with his left hand. What was he clutching at? His collar? His face?

"What-?" The doctor asked, walking forward and noting with an obscure, whimsy distance that the floor wore merry, bright red spatters.

"Colonel!" Hawkeye called.

She tried to free herself from a concerned Ed and Havoc who had rushed to her aid. Havoc found some solace in seeing that the flow of blood was negligible considering where the bullet had landed. It could have been a different story if it caught her an inch or so north of where it did.

Even though the Lieutenant's eyes had been closed, she knew in the very deepest part of her that the Colonel had been hit. The grunt in the wake of the bang or the tightening of his hands on hers, moments before he lost his grip: she knew without a doubt that her blood was not the first to coat the bullet now lodged inches from her heart.

"Colonel!" She cried again, batting Havoc's hand away as he tried to coax her into lying down.

Mustang didn't answer, but just continued his weird, almost funny half-run forwards, left hand still raised.

Knox caught up with him and saw with a plummeting of his heart, the smoking hole in the back of his jacket.

Somewhere, sounding like he was very far away, they heard Ed on the radio signalling for Hughes.

"Kid!" Knox called urgently through a shocked whisper and grabbed Mustang's arm. The alchemist tripped over his own feet and fell sideways, bringing the doctor to the ground with him. That's when Knox observed the true, unavoidable horror of their predicament. He raised his could-be son to kneeling and gasped as the young man's wide, shocked eyes met his.

Mustang's left hand was clasped tightly around his throat, his fingers slick and crimson red with the steaming blood that spilled from the exit wound in his lower neck. As he was bowing, the bullet had pierced right through him at a shallow angle before pounding into the Lieutenant's shoulder. Mustang tried to speak, but through the gurgle and hiss of his ruined throat, he didn't even manage to squeeze out a single syllable. Instead, the effort filled his mouth with blood and he spat it messily onto his thighs and knees, not possessing enough energy to clear even himself.

"Oh no..." Knox said quietly. "No, no, no..."

Mustang's left hand lost some traction and slid from his throat to thud against Knox's lap. He blinked and his mouth gaped widely as more blood fell from him in heavy, bright showers. His uniform was already sodden. He would never survive. There was no hope. He would die between the four dirty walls of the welders' yard; of that much the doctor could be certain. Knox pulled him back to sit against him, the Colonel's compact form propped against the doctor's broad chest. He groaned as he leant over the alchemist to examine the exit wound.

The bullet had exploded out of him, and even through the blood, Knox could see the purple, shining sinews of the Colonel's still breathing, still working body. He 'shushed' the younger man softly and reached into the cavernous wound to clamp his fingers over a heavily gushing artery. Mustang moaned without resonance and Knox could feel the vibrations shudder and stop in the wet mess of his neck.

"Hawkeye! Hey! Don't!" Havoc was calling.

Ed caught the Lieutenant as she rushed to her feet but she swung back, catching the teenager on the ear. He yelped but reached out to catch her again, this time with his automail arm. She screamed in a rage and kicked her legs as Ed hauled her back.

"Let me see him!" She called. "Let go! Let me see him! Colonel! Colonel Mustang!"

Havoc moved in front of her, shocked to see her white face and wild, unthinking eyes.

"Hawkeye, you're hurt. Ri, please. Your shoulder..."

"No! It doesn't matter." She growled, thrashing against Ed and swiping vicious hands to move Havoc from her view. "Please! Let me see him! Please! Colonel!"

Knox saw Mustang's eyes slide sideways, searching for Hawkeye's voice. Then blinking slowly, they moved up to his own. Knox understood without further prompt.

"Let her go!" He called out, authority clear in his tone. "Let her through. Come on."

Ed and Havoc exchanged a look of uncertainty but didn't have much opportunity to question the order as Hawkeye broke from them and sprinted the short distance to where Mustang and Knox huddled together.

The Lieutenant fell in front of her dear Colonel, her hands already on his cheeks. Their eyes were locked, staring and filled with grief as Hawkeye whined highly, not able to protect him from this slow and ferocious death. Mustang reached his shaking right hand up to touch lightly at her shoulder, his eyes clenching shut as a violent wave of pain ravaged him.

He coughed, another stream tumbling from his neck and mouth. Hawkeye used her sleeve to wipe the blood from Mustang's chin and catch it there, as though doing so might save him. She was lost. Her goal in life to watch his back was stripped bare by her doubt in those few moments; her uncertainty and caution had her facing him, questioning him, when she should have been guarding his back.

"No." She whispered.

"No." Ed repeated, the sound like a ricochet.

They should have been travelling back together by now, consulting Hughes on how to clean up the collateral and move forward with their lives. He should have been exchanging jibes with Mustang while Hawkeye smiled her knowing, classy smile in the front seat of the car. They _beat_ the bad guy, that's how these things worked, no?

_Death isn't an end, it's a part of life and you know as well as anyone the hole it leaves behind. It needs no invitation and doesn't care who it takes._

"No." Ed repeated as he walked forward on dead legs.

_There is nothing, _you_ are no more, but the world keeps turning._

How could the Colonel exist one moment and in the next few minutes be taken from them forever? It was impossible. It was _unreasonable_. With the memory of his conversation with the Colonel at the marching grounds, so too came the memory of the folded piece of paper Mustang handed to him there: his array for Fuery.

"I can save him." Ed said, but as he watched Hawkeye and Knox see to the fallen man, he knew he wasn't heard. He turned his gleaming, golden eyes to Havoc. "I- I can save him. He's-"

Havoc came close and bent low to listen to Ed, keen to have something, or someone to better calm his thoughts. Breda and Falman were running back from the bottom of the warehouse shaking their heads.

"He has an array." Ed continued, his eyes drifting back to Mustang and the growing puddle of blood. "He _designed_ an array for Fuery. Havoc, I have it. I saw the array and it's perfect. There's no reason we can't-"

"Knox!" Havoc yelled, his eyes still on Ed. The doctor looked up, indignation clear on his face. "It's worth it – believe me."

Knox cast one look at Hawkeye who nodded absently, her whole body shaking and her eyes darting wildly. He smiled sadly and took her right hand with his, while his left continued to stave the Colonel's bleeding. With Havoc and the others looking on, haunted expressions on every face, the doctor explained to Hawkeye how she should press on Mustang's artery and prop him up just so to block the wound from the other side. Her mouth in a tight line, Hawkeye abided, willing herself not to lose it; not when in reality, _and_ through a mocking metaphor, she held Mustang's life in her hands.

As Knox moved to Ed to hear out the boy's theory, Mustang and Hawkeye were left alone. Her fingers slid against the smooth flesh of the blood vessel and every time she lost her grip, another torrent of scarlet death would spill from his throat. She muttered 'sorry' through a sob and adjusted herself, wanting to deny every part of the reality about her: his short breaths, his cold, damp fingers as they clung to hers and the awful way he leant heavier against her with every passing second, both of them sinking farther towards the ground.

"You can't..." She begged, pushing her face against the back of his cooling neck and breathing noisily against him. "Please." Her tears soaked his hair and ran down between the space of his collar and his skin where they marbled ruby in his bloody neck.

Mustang couldn't speak. When he had so much to say, his words were taken from him. All he could do was hold himself closer to her and keep himself from answering the pain that wracked his dying body. His vision swam and soon the room was nothing more than a black void dotted with the occasional glint of metal and dull glass.

Then a face appeared, framed by usually blond hair now browned with the dried mess of the beast's fluids.

"Edward..." He tried to say, but he knew it was useless.

Hawkeye's stomach lurched at the sensation of Mustang's cords and muscles shifting about her fingers as he tried to speak.

"We're using your array, Colonel. You have to hang on. I can transmute the pattern into the – hey! Open your eyes! Into the floor. We can save you, Mustang. Hang on."

The face moved off as Hawkeye gasped behind him but Mustang's hand shot out, grabbing the boy's wrist.

"Colonel." Hawkeye whispered, her right hand tightening on his in an eerie echoing of his mother's actions, except the pain in his hand was now a nothing in the unbearable hurt of his neck and back.

Mustang tried to talk again, but only succeeded in gurgling weakly. He blinked heavily once, then twice, the effort managing to clear his vision enough to see Ed and behind him, Knox. He shook his head.

"No..." He mouthed.

"Colonel!" At least two of his men chorused, though he couldn't be sure who. Hawkeye was as silent as a soldier waiting for the firing squad.

Ed knelt in front of him, his young voice too inexperienced to hide his desperation. "This is _your_ array, Colonel. You were going to use it on Fuery. Please, we – we don't have time."

Mustang shook his head again, then with his shaking left hand, drew two letters upside down so Ed and Knox could see them better.

_H. T._

Everyone quieted about them as Mustang's eyes bore into Ed's, trying without words to communicate the truth that was so clearly before them. If he was truly gone by the time Ed had finished modelling the array, then the instability of the transmutation ran the risk of that great taboo. Ed scoffed, then sat back and huffed again, biting his lower lip. Then he spoke, his words angry – betrayed even.

"Human transmutation, Colonel? Really?" His young eyes grew more sombre. "You're not planning to live so long huh?"

Mustang laughed wetly, the curious sound seeming to fill the whole room. It was a laugh that said, 'who are you kidding?'

There was only one person who could answer their dilemma, only one person with the _right_ to answer.

"Do it." She said quietly. Mustang groaned, his feet scraping the floor as he tried to turn and look at her. She held him tight in place, easily suppressing his weak attempts to move.

"Do it." She repeated, her amber eyes meeting Ed's without an ounce of uncertainty. When the Colonel moaned out his distress, or disappointment again she snapped her head forwards to look at him. "What, Sir? You have nothing-" a breath, "_nothing_ to live for?"

Mustang's bright, damp eyes pierced Hawkeye's, and grabbing her free hand with renewed strength he thrust it against his chest, holding it there – 'Of course I do.'

And that was it.

Ed didn't need any further instruction. Standing, he pulled the array from his pocket, studied it and set about writing it into the concrete floor.

All the while, Mustang and Hawkeye sat together, the blood of one staining the skin, clothes and hair of the other. Hawkeye barely felt the pulsing in her shoulder and when she heard the faint clicking noises issuing from Mustang's throat, she leant forward to help him free his mouth of the darkening blood that gathered there. It hadn't taken long for the bright, red matter of his chest and lungs to turn brown and thick as his body dragged more of the stuff from his belly, guts and limbs.

Ed was with them again, explaining to Hawkeye that to have her in the circle was too dangerous, bleeding as freely as she was. The Colonel's strange alchemy was much too fresh and complex. The moment the transmutation was initiated, the Colonel's body would be pulled apart and remade anew, without wound and saved from the jaws of death. There was one catch: he would have to die alone.

So laying him out with his head rolling sideways and his eyes blinking through his confused, consuming pain, Ed and Havoc retreated back to the team to watch their superior perish in the middle of the wide, beautiful circle.

Hawkeye leant against Havoc, who noticing she was long since able to stanch her own wound, had removed his jacket to press it against her shoulder.

"You're shivering, kiddo." He said against her, realising all over again how small and delicate she really was. Like Mustang, she had something of a talent for illusion. In the team, it was hard to remember they weren't invincible.

She nodded and allowed herself to be held tighter. Then everyone, as one, balked as the Colonel's back arched and he made a strange hiccuping sound. The sound came again, and his heavy legs kicked pathetically at the floor. His hand lifted then fell across his mouth.

"This isn't right." Breda said quietly. "Us just watching him like this. It isn't right."

Mustang groaned and tossed his head to the side. The hiccuping came again, closely followed by the sound of vomiting. He coughed and gagged, not managing to catch his breath before he retched again. He was choking, drowning in his own blood and sick.

"Ed please..." Hawkeye said, her words plea-heavy. "Please."

Knox squeezed Hawkeye's good shoulder and moved over beside Ed.

"Is there no way?" He asked quietly.

Ed shook his head. "When a person dies, their soul only remains within them for a few moments after, just seconds. As soon as Mustang is... gone, that array will light up and command action. I don't have _any_ control. The flux of the soul dictates the timing of the transmutation. I know it's hard to believe, but if I don't get the moment right, the consequences will be even more unthinkable than this... believe me."

Knox nodded, then his eyes sparked behind his glasses. "A few seconds, kid – it's enough. You know as well as I do he shouldn't die alone."

Ed's golden eyes focussed on the swirls and dips of the array. Whoever went in with Mustang would have a few seconds at least to leave the circle before Ed would have to act, it was true.

"Ed..." Knox urged. "You're the boss, but if I can make things easier for that boy, then that's what I need to do."

Ed glanced up to see Mustang had turned onto his back again and lay there panting with his hands resting limply on his heaving chest. He then faced Hawkeye who sat trembling visibly against Havoc, her hair loose and her hands covered with both her blood and that of the Colonel's. Oblivious of Ed's look, her eyes remained fixed on Mustang, tears cutting silent paths across a face she tried her best to keep steady. Then, as the Colonel lurched again, she spoke quietly through a breath.

"You can't... we've only just-" She choked, catching herself.

Ed's golden eyes shot to Knox for some guidance and the man nodded once. The young alchemist studied the array again with a glance.

"A few seconds, that's all." He said to Knox's back as the man rose and made his way into the circle.

Knox knelt beside his dying boy and he was surprised to see Mustang's eyes still alert and even fearful for him now he was in the circle too.

"This is some mess you've got yourself into, huh..." He muttered, not unkindly.

The violent red halter covered every inch of Mustang's smooth, pale neck. Sensing the older man near, hands clasped blue-fingered and messy at Knox's lapel, then an ear, while soaking boots scraped against the floor as though he were trying to push himself away and leave the disaster behind. But the wound was his. The body his and the blood his: this death _would_ be his death. There was no attempt at speech now, only a chirping gurgle when a new breath was drawn before it floundered in the wet scarlet of the still blossoming wound.

A whinny of distress echoed in the quiet of the warehouse and Knox knew by the shame in the alchemist's eyes that his body was mutinying. Seconds later, the elder man saw the blue trousers stained darker with the death release of muscle. The ruse came easy: it wasn't the first time the doctor had hidden the sad lettings go of a body shutting down.

"You cold?" He asked loudly enough so the rest of the room would hear and thus be protected from the Colonel's mortification.

Mustang's response was a shaky turn of his head, confusion at the question fighting to make itself known in ever glazing eyes.

"Well that wouldn't do, would it? The Flame Alchemist being cold. That wouldn't do at all." The doctor said as he removed his coat and draped it over the stain, pulling Mustang onto his side and closer as he did so. The dark head lolled against his knee, thankful that the small humiliation had been concealed.

A distressed gasp escaped the doctor as he felt something familiar. In a strange mirroring of that moment many years ago, Mustang's hand had found his own and pressing them gently palm to palm, black eyes danced desperate with permission to be held and shielded from this horror. Knox took his hand: a man's hand now, a boy no longer, and held it as tightly as he possibly could.

Breaking eye contact to study the wound – the paling of the lips, the blackening of the right ear – Knox knew it could be another five minutes before death took this young man from him. Five minutes of bleeding until he was blue, until he vomited bile and shook and gargled out his throes. Five minutes of lying limp of body and cotton minded, knowing the grief soaked eyes of the men he loved and respected were on him. Five minutes of wishing it wasn't the brute doctor who held him, but a slim blonde with a keen eye. Five minutes of feeling the world rise above him as he sank beneath the black, ink chill of a slow, filthy passing. It wouldn't do. It wasn't right. No matter the hope of the array, Knox could not allow this life to peter out through ragged pangs.

Mustang, even in his half state between worlds, watched the appraisal with dulled curiosity. A beat later he closed his eyes slowly and with purpose, and Knox knew that his thoughts had been understood.

'I am too afraid,' the closed eyes said.

And that was okay.

The doctor took his free hand and touched it to the cold wax of the Colonel's cheek, then slowly, _slowly_ and with heat already rushing to his eyes, he moved his fingers so they rested at the nose and mouth. With a deep breath he clamped them there, cutting off the oxygen.

It only took a second before the animal in Mustang sprang to the fore and raged for life. Coal eyes in yellowed whites shot open and stared up from the miscellany of fringe, hand and blood. His back arched and his legs bucked while exhausted fingers clawed weakly at Knox's hand. Every time the Colonel issued a frightened, rasping squeal, more blood bubbled from the awful hole in his neck. But Knox held tight.

Outside the circle, most looked away but everyone understood and were thankful that Knox had the strength to save Mustang from his suffering. Only Ed and Hawkeye kept their vigil to the passing. Ed with fingers twitching, readied himself for the moment when the soul made to flee and Hawkeye having come this far, having watched him for so long, refused to look away. She beheld the moment, _that_ moment when the impossible happened. A sob broke from her, then something else: a raving, frantic animal wail that shook each witness to their very cores. Havoc pulled at his hair with a wet sigh, and Breda shielded his eyes. Falman stood soberly with head bowed. Ed found that here was a new grief, a new proof of how awful death could be.

The clawing quieted.

The breath slowed.

The body sank.

The head rolled.

He was gone.

Roy Mustang was dead.

"_Get out of the circle Knox." A young voice cried, far off and dream thin._

A yawning mouth. Black eyes fixed open, staring wide and hare like. Staring without a thought behind them, nor feeling in their depths. A limp hand dripped from the doctor's clasp.

"_Knox... too late...now"_

"Knox!"

The doctor's head snapped up and away from the body at his knees. The _body..._

_Too late, _Ed thought as the array yanked violently on his hands. Mustang's soul was brink close to vanishing forever.

"Knox!" Everyone but Hawkeye was shouting now. The doctor slid in the puddle of blood as he scrambled to stand, his thick hands slipping in the ruby syrup. He managed to half crawl, half stumble to his feet and eventually righted himself to running for the outside of the circle.

Ed would have screamed in despair, would have railed at the man paralysed by the guilt of his own compassion but he didn't have a chance. The array snatched hungrily at his hands once more, then again, then like a broad salmon on a thin line, Mustang's soul seized at the array and pulled Ed's hands down to slap against the concrete floor.

No one could say for certain if Knox had made it out in time.

* * *

Would love to hear your comments chaps if you have the time :) Especially now that we're pulling up to the final station...

Cheers again to **Southpaw (beta), Fudfoodle **and** hand-made-city (links to artwork on profile - check it!) **and** everyone **who's been so kind in reading, fav'ing and commenting so far.

See you soon with Ch 23...


	23. A Further Shore

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

Hullo to everyone – this is it: the final chapter.

_(Note: took some liberty with details of Mustang's specs so, you know, meh!) _Also, if anyone's interested, I wrote the end of this chapter with Candy by Paolo Nutini (my future husband) on an almost constant loop.

A massive thanks to the glorious **Southpaw** for all her hard work throughout the 23 chapters! (and to **artFULLYoutuvit**)

Thanks to everyone who's been so kind and supportive in their comments – massive help in wrestling my way through this! Thankee thankee thankee!

Please, please check out my profile for links to mind blowingly amazing artwork by **hand-made-city **and the cheeky, pencil toting **Fudfoodle** (who incidentally was very helpful in giving the draft of this final chapter a 'thumbs-up'). And who, along with **Megami**.**Ze., **listened to me moan (a lot!) about finishing this in good time. They're also both great authors in their own right, so watch (their) space.

Okay – I hope you enjoy and thanks again to everyone. Mwah!

* * *

History says, Don't hope

on this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

the longed for tidal wave

of justice can rise up,

and hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change

on the far side of revenge.

Believe that a further shore

is reachable from here.

Believe in miracles

and cures and healing wells.

_From _The Cure at Troy – Seamus Heaney

* * *

With the setting of the sun, a hard winter rain had started to fall on Central. Icy daggers cut through the air and bounced knee-high off the wide empty streets of the industrial complex. Hughes, bending far over the steering wheel, swore in rhythm with the lashing downpour. His heart hadn't stopped hammering since Ed had come on his radio. He knew that Mustang and Hawkeye had been hit, but how badly – he couldn't be sure. Ed signed off before he had a chance to ask him anything. He only hoped that the boy's urgency was a sign that he still had time to save his friend. Anything else was unthinkable.

"Shit-" He swore as his car skidded to a stop in a huge puddle at the front of the warehouse. He half fell from the vehicle, not bothering to cut the engine, and raced to the entrance. Even over the pelting rain, an ominous rumble could be heard coming from inside the building, while sharp blue light pulsed from the windows, a couple of which had been blown out.

Shock pains lanced up Hughes' arms as he shoved open the door and his breath was stolen from him in the very next instant. The warehouse was alive with light. Indigo bolts of electricity darted across the ceiling, the webbed energy snagging hungrily on the rafters and crackling in stop-start jolts across the corrugated roof. Huge factory lights exploded all about the hangar, showering the space with orange sparks that fizzed against the raging sapphire. The noise cut through ear and mind, a low rumble punctuated with the whip crack of godly power. Silhouetted against the private apocalypse was the Colonel's team – he knew them instantly: Havoc's strong back, Breda's stout resistance, Falman's quiet poise... and there, kneeling resolutely against this wonder – Hawkeye.

Hughes knew it was futile to call to them. Instead, he pushed against the strange, hot wind that billowed out from the centre of the room and finally managed to struggle his way to Falman. The older man was bracing himself against the force with his right arm raised before his eyes. With a tap to the shoulder, Hughes broke him from his terrified enchantment.

"What's happening?" He cried.

Falman turned to him, his bright eyes reflecting the bolts that raced overhead. "Mustang's gone!"

Hughes shook his head, not having heard – or understood perhaps.

Falman swallowed and bent forward, taking Hughes by the elbow and shouting into his ear. "The Colonel... he's _dead_, Sir." His eyes found Hughes' and held them. "The Colonel was shot in the back. He – he's dead. He died. This-" The man gestured to the transmutation but Hughes was already moving away from him, tripping off in deafened disbelief.

Stumbling forward dumbly, he reached Havoc who knelt with one hand resting gently on the top of Hawkeye's arm.

_Dead._

"Havoc-" He called, not able to hear his own voice in his ears. "Havoc!"

Slowly, the blond turned his heavy eyes to Hughes.

"Sir..." He responded. It seemed as though that was all he could muster.

"Roy -"

Havoc stared at him squarely then nodded once, his sharp eyes glancing off and beyond Hughes' shoulder.

"It's Ed..." He swung his head back to gesture at the transmutation. "All this..."

His right hand tightened on Hawkeye's arm, long fingers nestling into the folds of her bloodied uniform. In the same slow motion, his whole countenance bled away into something entirely sharper. His gaze found a new focus and with a sullen smirk that could rival Mustang's, he spoke with a ragged, determined strength.

"He'll do it. He has to. Have a little faith, Sir."

Hughes stared back dumbfounded, but then his gaze too found a new focus: Ed.

The boy was bent low against the wall of light, his blond hair whipping about him and his blue waist-cape snapping fiercely in the maelstrom. Hughes' mouth fell open as he was swallowed by the spectacle; he stood as stock still and unbelieving as the others. Ed was saving Mustang. _Have a little faith_, Havoc had said, and optimism, Hughes could do.

Ed's fingers burnt with energy as it bit, rat-vicious and hungry on them. His stomach lurched as he felt, from somewhere inside the circle, Mustang's soul, the very _essence_ of the man rage for life. Every now and then, the boy's eyes would roll back in his head as he became lost in the ecstasy of the reaction, images of the Colonel's life darting before his eyes like minnows. Slanted rooves; dirty fingernails; ten small toe prints on the sand; a cough; the wet corner of an old blanket; a warm breath; bright eyes and long lashes; a damp laugh in the dark; a limp hand in the light; a big machine riding on rails for miles and miles; a world he didn't know, where you couldn't see the mountains anymore; books; a house; a blonde; a sigh; a cry; a kiss under a low-blown tree; blue sleeves; red eyes; white fire; black nights; an explosion of colour and noise; the taste of heat in the throat and cold in the heart; a boy in a wheelchair with a look that could kill...

With that, the transmutation shuddered, rocking Ed where he knelt with his palms pressed firmly to the ground. Another shock rumbled out through the floor, bouncing pebbles and rattling scrap metal to a chorus of jangling steel. Finally, Ed felt the grip of the reaction loosen about his heart and lungs, uncurling itself from his middle and withdrawing towards the circle like a retreating tide.

He cried out as the last tendrils of energy came loose and slipped away, leaving nothing but a hollow in his chest and a burning in his hands. In seconds, the turbulent violets and blues faded to greys. Ed rubbed his streaming eyes and tried to peer through the clearing smoke. Behind him, he heard a vague scratching echo of his name being called.

Two figures started to show through the mist, the steaming floor making them appear as if they were floating. One was bent on hands and knees while the other had been tossed to the far end of the circle.

"Ed!" Hughes shouted. His voice sounded thick and impossibly tired.

"I see something!" Ed called back over his shoulder, trying to rally himself to standing.

A light touch to his arm paused him in his efforts.

"Is it safe?" Hughes asked, kneeling beside the teenager.

Ed looked at him, then back at the thinning fog. He shrugged weakly.

"I don't know." He rubbed at his eyes again, trying to make sense of the figures in the circle. The memory of the Po-Yang monster barked in his mind. "I could feel him, Hughes. I was right there with him... He was here just a second ago but I – I don't know..."

"Havoc said Knox-"

A cry interrupted the investigator: a low, braying sound.

"Was that-" Hughes started but the sound came again, more irritable this time.

Man and boy stood, each supporting the other. Hughes cast a cautious look back to Havoc: _she_ may not want to see this, it said. Havoc nodded and held fast to Hawkeye who trembled against him, doe-nervous and ready to spring forward at the slightest slip.

The figure groaned again.

"Knox?" Hughes called, swiping smoke away as he went.

Ed's eyes widened when they landed on the doctor, but whatever it was that struck him was quickly concealed again. He took one last appraising look, head cocked, before moving off.

"Colonel?" He shouted timidly, inching forwards into the circle and trying his best to ignore the brown-red stain on the concrete. Mustang's blood had been virtually seared into the floor.

Outside the circle, with the remaining lights now thrown on, Breda and Falman had their guns trained on every shadow and crook of the building. Havoc had slipped his radio from its pouch and was signalling for Hughes' most trusted staff. Regardless of the outcome, this would be a clean-up operation like none other. The hefty lump of flesh and bone at the back of the shop floor attested to that.

As Hughes drew nearer, he almost laughed when he saw the state Knox was in. The man was scrabbling grumpily for his glasses with one hand, while the other groped at his back to stave off an ache. It was a ludicrously normal sight – some old guy hunting for his spectacles. Spotting the black-rimmed glasses, oddly intact, Hughes crouched for them and held them out to the doctor, frightened that the normalcy was hiding some terrible reaction as yet unseen.

"Are you o-"

"About goddamn time." The doctor grumbled, grabbing hold of Hughes' arm to help himself up. His gruffness did nothing to hide the panic in his voice when he next spoke. "Where's the kid?"

"Guys!" Ed's voice echoed from the other side of the circle.

Both men turned, and both were terrified by what they might see.

At the edge of the array, Mustang's body lay pale and naked in the sickly light of the few remaining factory lamps. He was curled in on himself, the white slope of his back facing upwards and his dark head resting easily in the crook of his arm. His skin was impossibly pale – translucent almost – and his black hair had grown out some to fall over his back and shoulder. Between his scapula, exactly where the bullet had entered, was a deep, scarlet birthmark. He wasn't moving.

"Roy!" Hughes called as he ran forwards. A hot tang of vomit made itself known in his throat. _Be alive. Please, please, please,_ the word pounded against his skull.

Hawkeye bucked in Havoc's hold, a new despair biting into her. Why weren't they letting her see him?

"Please..." She whispered tiredly, black shadows beginning to snatch at her vision.

He fixed his strong arms about her and spoke softly against the shell of her ear. "Sorry, Ri. When it's time. I promise."

Hughes raced over a discarded uniform and past Ed, who was frozen where he stood. He threw himself down beside his friend, oblivious to the pain that shot into his kneecaps. He tore off his coat and tossed it over Mustang before turning him onto his back.

"Roy..." He moaned, seeing the same angry discolouration fan out in a starburst from where the bullet had exited the man's throat. From this close, the skin didn't look scarlet so much as a deep, sombre blue. The same detail marred a claw mark on his cheek and the back of his right hand: anywhere that had been an open wound was welded shut with the strange nevi.

Hughes wiped at his nose with his sleeve and lowered his ear to his friend's mouth to listen for the precious suck and flow of air, but there was nothing.

"Hey..." Hughes said, slapping Mustang lightly on the cheek, sickness uncoiling itself further in his belly. "Hey, Roy, come on..."

Knox knelt beside him, closely followed by Ed.

The young alchemist surveyed Mustang's recumbent form, noting that other than the birthmarks everything else seemed to be in place. So why wasn't he breathing?

"Hey. Mustang." Ed bit out, leaning over the man and being careful not to disturb Hughes' coat.

Knox and Hughes stopped in their own study to stare at the irreverent teen.

"Don't just lie there, you lazy bastard." Ed took Mustang's lax right hand with his cool metal fingers, hoping the freeze and echo of alchemy would stir the man. "Hey! I'm talking to you, you stupid ass."

Hughes' mouth turned down and he cast sad eyes at Ed as the boy grew more distressed. "Ed..."

"You design this array for Fuery-" Ed continued through a wheeze. "Then you don't even have the decency to let it work on yourself."

In a shockingly sudden move, he struck Mustang hard across the face.

"Typical." He spat.

"Hey!" Knox shouted, fierce eyes darting to the boy.

"Ed..." Hughes soothed, reaching out only to have his hand batted away. He tried again, cautiously letting his fingers settle on Ed's forearm. His voice shook.

"Ed... you tried your best... Ed, I..." A massive tremor within his heart threatened to break Hughes in half. He collected himself, barely, with a sigh. "You tried your best."

Golden eyes vaguely registered Hughes before they slid back to Mustang. Fullmetal spoke through a grimace.

"All due respect, Hughes – but that's bullshit. I caught his soul in time and that array was perfect." He grabbed Mustang roughly by the shoulders and shook him. "You hear that you asshole? It was perfect. Perfect!"

He shook the body so violently, the Colonel's head cracked once against the concrete. Hughes was about to snatch at Ed's arm when the boy raised both hands in the air, lacing his fingers together.

"Ed, no!"

"I won't let you prove me wrong you bastard!" Ed screamed and slammed his fist down, the blow making a loud, hollow thud against Mustang's bare chest.

The Colonel lurched with a gag-draw of breath. He shot to sitting, arms hanging back and larynx pushed to the sky. His black hair hung back in a veil, and from beneath his unruly fringe, two bright blue eyes stared upwards. Hughes, Knox and Ed gasped as one and fell back onto their haunches as the Colonel drank in the cold air of the warehouse. His skin leapt and shivered against the chill as steam continued to swirl about him in thin, ghostly tails.

"Roy..." Hughes whispered. In the dim yellow light, the man could barely make out his friend's features and he found himself unnerved greatly by the wolfish stare and hungry, wetted breaths. He wondered, seeing the vivid, uncanny blue, if his friend was blind.

Knox appeared to catch his thoughts, explaining with a murmur. "Virtually no protein in the eyes... like all newborns. This is... unexpected..."

_Newborns_, the word snagged with all three of the them but Mustang didn't pay much heed.

Rather, his gaze found Hughes', and the azure softened to a powdered confusion. "Hughes?"

The Colonel wavered and was caught by his three companions. He blinked heavily and struggled to find Hughes' face again. A low rumble sounded from his throat as he corrected himself with shaking, uncertain fingers.

"H-Hughes?" He repeated feebly, reaching a hand to touch at his friend's damp face. "Are you dead or am I alive?"

"You're alive friend." Hughes answered quietly, catching Mustang's fingers with his own and squeezing. Mustang blinked again and looked about him stupidly.

"I..." The Colonel started meekly in nothing more than a whisper. "My head... I can't... What happened?"

Hughes shrugged. "You know... I have no idea."

Unable in his exhaustion to hide his emotions, Mustang's face fell into a petulant scowl. "Hn."

Pulling him into a tight embrace, Hughes barked out a shallow, breathy laugh. "You're only back three minutes and you're already a grouch. My god – you don't know how happy I am to see your grumpy face."

The smaller man shuddered and allowed himself to be held. Hughes, rubbing circles on his back, couldn't help but think of how small Mustang felt in his arms. Out of uniform, and in many ways new to the world, the naked vulnerability of the alchemist shifted some paternal tide in the man. Beside him, Ed looked on with jaw set and eyes captivated by the sight.

There was a sloppy murmur against Hughes' uniform.

"Mmm?" Hughes asked, his lips in a tight line, as Mustang shifted and mumbled his thoughts into his ear.

"Where is she?" He grunted irritably, with his shivering body collapsed messily against his friend's chest and the coat resting precariously below his navel. His head fell back heavily, but Hughes managed to catch and support it as delicately as he would Elysia's.

"Where is she?" He repeated through a muddled, child-like yawn with eyebrows knitted.

It was impossible for Hawkeye to have heard him, but at that moment, she tore herself from Havoc and darted free of his outstretched hands. Ignoring his calls, she stumbled on drained legs, ducking her head to better see her Colonel past Knox and Ed. In seconds, she was throwing both of them aside without word or warning. Neither gave protest, as they saw her wild-eyed and desperate – a vision of relief and hunger made real. Unthinking, she shoved Hughes away with one hand and caught Mustang with the other. The dark haired man fell against her, before reason took him and he pushed himself back, scanning her harried visage.

"You're here." He said softly, an open, honest grin breaking onto his face.

A mute nod and a bittersweet smile was all she could return.

"You're hurt." He muttered, his smile faltering as he skimmed the lightest of touches across her wounded flesh.

A beat later, he fainted against her, fatigue and confusion robbing him of what little consciousness he had left.

Hawkeye knelt back with him, cradling his head against her good shoulder while her hands locked behind his back. A warm breath, steady and strong, brushed against her neck. Then another came, _as _steady and _as _strong: a miracle of his living. Somewhere, in some childish part of her mind, she wanted the clocks to stop and the earth to cease spinning.

With Falman and Breda instructed to remain outside the warehouse and wait for Hughes and Christmas' team of 'cleaners' to arrive, the party readied themselves to leave. Hughes rolled his shoulders and groaned as he gathered Mustang up in his arms, careful to maintain his decency amongst the staff – ego or no, even the Colonel had his limits. With Hawkeye quiet and close, her eyes never leaving Mustang's sleeping form, Hughes offered a knowing wink to Ed and Knox.

"Believe it or not-" He grunted. "This isn't the first time I've carried Roy half-naked and unconscious to a car."

Overhearing, Havoc snorted, still grim faced, and made his way out of the building to start up the engine.

"A vision..." Ed deadpanned, then waved Hughes and Hawkeye off as they started towards the exit. "I want to hang around for a moment – sort something out."

"Suit yourself – don't be too long. _You know who_ still has to get her shoulder treated..." Hughes called back, his voice strained with his burden.

Still shaken, Knox grumbled and allowed himself the morbid indulgence of looking at the dark stain on the floor again.

"So much blood, kid. You performed a miracle." He said gruffly, not meeting Ed's eyes.

The alchemist paused, his face set in deep concentration before he regained himself with a breath. He looked to Knox.

"I might have performed a couple actually."

Knox didn't say anything, but merely stared forward absently as though waiting for a train to arrive.

"You didn't make it out of the circle in time, doctor. I'm not certain how, but I know that much now for sure." Ed said, his eyes narrowing as his young mind raced through thought and theory.

Knox sniffed. "We should join the others." He said, but he made no move. There was curiosity there, certainly; a damp intrigue to what hidden truth Ed had yet to reveal.

"Mustang's uniform, his blood: it was all left alone. But doctor-" Ed's golden eyes locked onto Knox's, "you're not just matter, you're not blood – you're another person. The array wouldn't have ignored that; if you saw what it did to Po-Yang..."

Knox nodded grimly. Then after chewing over a thought for a few moments, he reached into his pocket and produced the tooth Hawkeye had given him. "What about this?"

Ed recognised it immediately from the Colonel's brief and the story of that first letter from only a week ago. "His mother's tooth... but that only goes so far."

"I don't understand." Knox said, shoving his hands into his pockets, then yanking them back out again in irritation. He folded them roughly across his chest.

"The array just skimmed right over you, I couldn't feel you anywhere in there. You were just like his bl-"

"Don't say it, kid." Knox snapped, not unkindly, but with a sharp tune of giddy anxiety.

Ed shook his head as he spoke. "The tooth only takes you half way there. His mother's matter and you-"

Silence swept about them as Ed landed on a conclusion that Knox had both yearned for and feared in the last few hours.

"Does he know?" Ed asked, all of a sudden affronted by his discovery. But he had to know. The truth was right in front of him and the miracle of both men escaping the reaction unscathed was too great.

"No. And he's not going to." Knox said, warning clear in his voice.

Ed met his caution with sheer disbelief. "_Why_?"

Knox kicked his foot and turned his mouth into a scathing grimace-smirk. Ed fought not to see the resemblance now that the truth was before him.

"Let's go." The man clipped out, and started walking back towards the exit.

Ed followed silently, but deep in his gut, a sense of injustice was growing at Knox's glib quashing of the revelation.

Nearing the door, Ed stopped and took the older man by the elbow. "Knox. Mustang, he has a right to know."

"Listen kid, I've been in that boy's life for as long as anyone has and we're doing okay. There's no point in unsettling things this late in the game. We actually get along fine, which is more than I can say about the other boy: the one who _does_ carry my name. Now come on."

Knox took two steps before he realised that Ed hadn't followed. He paused, annoyance eating at him, and half turned to regard the boy with one unimpressed eye.

"That's a load of crap." Ed said as he pushed his weight onto one leg with his arms folded. "You can tell yourself that hiding away is what's best for your kid; come up with some excuse to make your fear sound fair and selfless; that you aren't responsible enough or good enough to be _that man. _But none of us missed what you did for the Colonel tonight. Or how you looked when you did it either...But you know what? Even for that, it's a real lousy kind of a guy that wouldn't want to call himself Mustang's dad."

With his piece said, Ed strode past the doctor, not bothering to look back as he dropped his final, _personal_ taunt.

"But don't worry, there's more where you came from – don't I know it."

Knox bit on his lip, watching the golden braid disappear around the corner and decided that tired as he was, he had a lot to think about that night.

The rain hadn't relented, despite their own catharsis, and everyone was quiet as Hughes' cramped car sped through the streets towards Madame Christmas' place. With Knox's approval, Hawkeye would be treated there under the watchful eye of the doctor himself and whoever the Madame could place at his disposal. They kept details of injury and event to a minimum, asking Christmas to clear an entire floor of the city mansion and have the back entrance secured for their arrival. Al was already there, safely tucked away where a giant suit of armour wouldn't draw too much attention.

With Havoc, Hughes and Knox in the front, Ed was nestled against one window in the back. Hawkeye leant against the other with the Colonel lying peacefully against her, his legs stretched out to lie across the younger alchemist's lap. Ed smiled to himself as he remembered Mustang sprinting forward, sword arm outstretched and voice ringing out across the warehouse. It had been hellish, and not something Ed cared to repeat, but a part of him was thankful for that superheated rush of justice and gall with his superior. He patted Mustang's leg and dropped his head back against the soft leather of the seat, hoping for the world that Knox would reconsider.

Across the bench, Hawkeye sat in a doleful half-sleep, feeling the burden of slow blood release and emotion drag on her. She worshipped Mustang's weight against her, calming her heart every time he took a breath or made a plaintive, gentle noise in his slumber. Under the passing street lamps, the newness of his body was startling. His pale skin, smooth as scar tissue, was iridescent in the fleeting light and his longer, raven hair fell about him in a muted, sombre crown. She swept a weary hand through the black strands, and let the motion hypnotise her into a calm she hadn't felt for days. Lost in her peaceful deed, she didn't notice that there wasn't a single grey to be seen.

Havoc and Hughes shared a broad look as they both caught each other's eyes studying the pair through the rear view mirror.

"Autumn wedding?" Hughes asked quietly so as not to be heard in the back, a sly smile nipping at the corner of his mouth. If only Mustang knew what was being said right under his nose...

Havoc breathed out a laugh and shook his head. "I've lost fifty big ones if there is..."

From beside the boys and with a heavy heart, Knox also regarded the couple and was shamed by Hawkeye's guileless dedication. _A lot of hard thinking_, he mused darkly, watching the rain slice past the window.

* * *

In the darkness, he turned to her, the brush of the heavy blankets inspiring a shudder. A wave of goosebumps rose across his new, sensitive flesh. Hawkeye couldn't be sure if the others knew or if they just assumed, but on waking after being treated by Knox, she found herself shoulder to shoulder with Mustang.

She had been knocked out for a matter of hours, and now in the quickening blue of the morning light, she found herself roused to wakefulness while Mustang still maintained his peaceful slumber. A short time ago, she heard footsteps by the door - Knox or Christmas she imagined - listening for any sound of distress. The doctor had told them that in the wake of the powerful transmutation, they should expect the same requirements for Mustang as they would a new born infant. He slept impossibly deeply, and wouldn't be able to eat solid foods until his stomach grew more robust. Then there were those melanin starved eyes - those unearthly orbs she had last seen before he collapsed back at the warehouse. Knox assured her that as he settled into his new skin, the bright hue would darken into the familiar, enchanting black.

Curious, she shuffled closer to the sleeping form. She studied him at length: the longer hair yet to be cut by Christmas; the black lashes; the meteor trail of the dark scar that cut across his cheek, and the gentle ghost of a smile that graced his lips. Any fine wrinkles had vanished from around his eyes and mouth, a product – she imagined – of the new, unworried skin. His body too seemed fuller and less angled. Where before his front was a flat plane of taut muscle, he now possessed a softer slimness, unshaped by a strict exercise regime and scant meals. His remade hands had never held a gun nor sent a flare into the fray; had never held a woman... It was peculiar, this brand new and aged paradox lying beside her.

Her mind raced to process the days that led them to this point, lying half dressed and convalescing in his mother's house. As she blew softly on the odd scarring of his neck, thrilled slightly by the hypersensitive reaction of his skin, she struggled to imagine how they were ever anything other than this intimate. It was like their time apart was the incongruity, and this was how it was always meant to be.

She thumbed his cheek lightly and he pushed against her palm, moaning far inside his chest, the sound like distant thunder. Creeping out of bed, she made her way to the en suite looking back once - just because.

Washing her hands, she froze as she heard a muted thump from outside the bathroom. She tore back the lock and yanked open the door, shocked to see a heap of tangled limbs and, staring up from under a dark fringe, two sharp blue eyes.

"Roy..." She whispered, rushing forwards.

"Why aren't you in bed?" He asked, panic colouring his voice. He didn't seem to mind that his legs were sprawled ungracefully beneath him and half the blankets had been dragged to the floor.

Hawkeye mock scowled, moving towards him and lifting him under the arms. "Why aren't _you_ in bed? By the doctor's account, you shouldn't even be awake."

Mustang considered this deeply as she settled him back on the mattress.

"You got up." He answered finally.

Climbing in beside him, she pulled the thick blankets about them again. "Well, I'm here now. How did you-?"

Her question was cut short by his snoring softly against her.

_Strange_, she thought, still reeling from the intense gaze her Colonel had managed to fix on her before falling into unconsciousness again.

Feeling the weight of a smooth palm against her belly, she roosted herself in the cradle of his hips and lost herself in the cotton calm of sleep.

* * *

The strong smell of coffee teased Hawkeye from her slumber. Death-tired, she forced her eyes open to see an array of rings and bangles as a hand placed a mug on the bedside table, closely followed by a small rack of toast.

"It's not good for you to sleep so late. Better to be up and avoid the habit. But I know you're not one to lie under your injury - Roy's told me more than enough about it before." Christmas said as she settled herself in a low seat beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Hawkeye struggled to sit up, her shoulder feeling especially tight. She succeeded in dragging herself to half sitting, and tried to hide the blush that raced up her neck. This woman's foster child was stretched out beside her, one finger hooked in the elastic of her underwear. She thanked god for the multitude of blankets.

"I'm not sure, Ma'am." She answered demurely, glancing at the coffee and pouting while she pulled together her response. "Everything seems so... distant and unbelievable. This time last week I was taking my dog for a walk."

Christmas turned her head to the side in thought before smiling cheekily. "You've got my son lying half-naked beside you; I think we're past calling each other 'Ma'am' and 'Miss Hawkeye', don't you?"

Hawkeye didn't say anything but fought the overwhelming urge to inch away from Mustang who was still ensconced in his deep, unnatural sleep.

"Don't look so worried! It's the best place for both of you!" Christmas laughed. "I know he won't do anything stupid with you around and I know that you won't leave him in case he tries. Has he woken at all yet?"

Hawkeye nodded. "Once. Early this morning - he was asleep again in seconds." She then reached for the coffee and took a long, much needed draught. She shuddered when she thought of what lay beyond the walls of Christmas' house and the safety of the weekend. What could they possibly say to the brass? When would _that_ problem come knocking on their door?

"If you keep scowling like that you'll get a face like a walnut. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind? It's only us girls and I haven't had a chance to talk at length with you since you were still in pinafores and white ankle socks."

Hawkeye took another deep sip and returned the cup to the table. She looked at nothing in particular as she spoke. "What are we going to do? When he was up last night he couldn't take a single step. He'll need time to recover; to build up his strength again. And the scarring... I don't know. The senior officers, they keep such a close watch on him and I don't know if he'll be ready to face them when he needs to." She shook her head. "Honestly... I'm frightened."

Christmas sat back, sighing loudly as she strung her arm across the back of the chair. Her nonchalance and joking were doing very little to conceal how much _she_ needed the reassurance of conversation as much as Hawkeye.

"Well," she began, "I can tell you two things that are going to cheer you up. One, is that Dr Knox has been ferreting out some favours from a consultant friend of his. They've logged Roy's blood with high levels of infection similar to the young Sergeant's. By all rights - even if he _was_ well enough - with that kind of infection, Roy would be driven from headquarters with a ten foot pole. He's got a sick line for a month, with a two month extension pending approval on request.

"The scarring – Knox is chalking it up as some strange reaction to the heat and chemicals at the plant. He's getting the older Elric boy to sign off on his report detailing the chemicals that could provoke that kind of biological response. He's been tampering about with your records too, Riza, so don't be surprised if you get a letter from your life insurance brokers in the coming weeks. You, lucky lady, have got a month's leave as well. Your grandfather's seconded one of his staff through to your office until you're fit to return. So you see! We old folk aren't too bad at all this, are we?"

Hawkeye told her anxiety to _shush_ as she thought about her time away from work. It would be time with Mustang, after all, which is exactly where she needed to be. Christmas skimmed above her musings and continued, her eyes falling on the dark tangle of her son's hair.

"As for Roy-boy there, I'm not sure how happy he'll be when he sees the state of himself. That scar on his cheek won't go down well. I don't know if you've noticed, but he has a thing about appearances." She smirked and looked as though she were about to take the Lieutenant by the hand before she thought better of it. She opted instead for an awkward clearing of her throat.

"I'm sorry if I took some liberty in putting you both together. But you can't blame an old doll like me for trying. It took us long enough to separate the two of you when the car arrived and so... well." The woman slapped her hands down on her knees and stood. "Well. I'll leave you be. There's a radio on the credenza and some silly novels in the bookcase in case you need to occupy yourself for a little longer."

Hawkeye couldn't tell if the woman was smirking or if her face naturally fell into the expression, a sign perhaps, of things to come for the man next to her.

Christmas chuckled lightly, seeing Hawkeye's polite bashfulness, and made her way to the door. She was half way out when she paused and spoke, only half turning back.

"You're lucky, getting a second chance like this. Be a little bolder, Riza."

Hawkeye stared after her, her eyes remaining glued to the door long after it was closed. The spell was broken as Mustang shifted and moaned. His face pushed against her arm, kitten-like in his unconscious search for some attention.

"You're impossible, Sir." She whispered before sliding back to the bed and pulling him flush against her.

He sighed through a smile.

* * *

When she next woke, he was not in the bed and the room was filled with curtain muted morning light. It was Sunday and they had both slept right through the night.

"Sir?" She called, then realising how ridiculous the title sounded in the privacy of the room, she called him again by his name.

She whipped her head to the en suite as the toilet flushed and soon after, the squeaking effort of a tap sprang to life. A few moments later the locked snapped back, the door opened and Mustang emerged bleary eyed and unsteady from the room. She noted, once again, the softer lines of his body and of course, the ostentatious splash of the deep indigo birthmark on his neck.

"Hi." He said, wobbling dramatically as he let go of the door frame. Even his voice was softer and less weathered.

Hawkeye shifted from the bed and guided him back by the hip and elbow, taking most of his weight as his feet made fawn-like treads on the soft carpet.

"I'm a mess." He laughed, embarrassed, then flopped onto the bed. A weak arm pulled her towards him. "Any ideas why I look like a wild man? Or what this is?" He asked, drawing his head back to look at his neck and tracing the pattern there.

Hawkeye pulled the blankets about them, nipped by the chill in the room despite Christmas' thick curtains and central heating.

"How much do you remember?" She asked.

Mustang's brows drew together as his frazzled mind tried to piece together his journey to the bedroom.

"Enough... I suppose. I – your shoulder..." He said, taking her hand.

"It's fine. Just muscle. He's dead. The one who... Havoc got him." Her eyes flitted back and forth as she tried to think of what he needed to know – it was a struggle. "Edward's in contact with his teacher to set up some forum where the assassins' group can confirm for themselves that Wei Po-Yang is gone for good – from you at least. Curtis is optimistic; they wanted him gone and they're hopeful that you truly destroyed him. She even thinks they'll congratulate you for a job well done."

"Po-Yang." Mustang said softly, closing his eyes as the image of the towering beast rushed against his mind. That one memory opened the flood gate, and soon his thoughts were awash with pictures and sounds from those horrid few hours. He gasped as the reality of what had happened slammed into him. He had been shot. He had _died_. Hawkeye's tears and Knox's grim countenance came back to him in flashes of distress, and he had to hold a hand to his chest for fear that his heart might erupt there. Hawkeye sensed his silent alarm and took his hand, squeezing it as hard as she could. Even that small gesture recalled the consuming, shuddering death that had claimed him as she pressed her fingers to his wounded palm. He died.

"I – I died." He gasped, blue eyes searching the air in front of him for answers. Already, they had darkened a shade, and he looked a little more like himself. "I – my god -"

The understanding of it was terrifying. His blood soaking the floor of the warehouse and the click-pain of the torn muscles shifting in his neck were enough to make him retch. And yet here he was in one piece, in bed, with the woman he loved. It all seemed too good to be true.

"The array..."

"Knox checked you over; he said everything was fine, that it would just take time..." Hawkeye urged, her own voice wavering with Mustang's contagious wonder and anxiety.

"Fullmetal..." He barked out a laugh. "God damn it, Fullmetal!"

He turned to Hawkeye, and laughed again. He would have scooped her up and held her aloft like a trophy if he thought he could manage it. Instead, he smiled and pressed a hard, joyous kiss to her forehead.

"Good grief, he's good. He's great! I'm great! That array is... great! And think of Fuery! The kid's going to be okay. Perfect! Ha ha! Perfect!" He tittered and shook his head. "Great..."

Hawkeye rolled her eyes. "Your modesty is great. Truly."

Mustang cast her an exaggerated look of admonishment and she smiled back, happy to see him awake and cheeky, boisterous and healthy minded. Their eyes locked together in dizzying triumph, dancing back and forth as they drank in their heated closeness. Hawkeye was the first to break the spell.

"So... you're safe?" She asked.

Mustang looked up and gave the question proper thought before answering. "Other than a few new – unusual – birthmarks, it seems so. My irises should darken down with exposure too: baby blues, huh."

Hawkeye nodded her confirmation. "So the doctor says."

"I presume a more talented liar than myself has come up with a cover for the mark on my face?"

"Is there such a thing?"

"As a cover? Of course there-"

"As a more talented liar."

Mustang blinked, scowled and then puffed out a disgruntled breath. Hawkeye felt a finger prod at her ribs. "That's cheeky."

She ran a hand through his hair, noting absently the lack of grey, and offered him a placating look, her amber eyes lighting to a burnished gold as the light struck them. "In my life, I've never felt anything close to what I felt in the last few hours. I didn't think terror and elation sat so closely together until you woke. Even after the array, there was so much blood. I thought: this is it, the end of everything. But you're here. And Fuery's going to be okay. The world didn't owe us any kindness, so I can only put it down to luck."

Mustang nodded and mirrored his lover's actions by lacing his own fingers through her hair.

"That's a lot of luck." He said, and grazed a delicate kiss against her lips. Then his hand paused. His face fell.

"What?"

"_After_ the array there was blood?"

Hawkeye recalled the dark stain then nodded.

"Inside the circle?"

"Yes. Everywhere. Burnt into the concrete."

"How much, would you say?" He pressed.

Confusion and worry crept into the bed beside Hawkeye. "I don't know. Pints certainly. You bled out. Pints of it... I don't like talking about this-"

"Pints? So how – the – what – what's my? So what am I?"

"Sir?" Hawkeye asked, falling into the habit of titles.

"If I lost that much blood and, as far as I can tell, kept all my fingers and toes, then where's the deficit matter? I mean – what's given so I can be me without all that blood?"

"I-"

Mustang was already clambering over her, tumbling out of the bed and onto the floor. He stood as quickly as he could manage and tripped into the bathroom.

"Do I look different? Of course I do: birthmarks; weakened, uncoordinated motions; scant muscle memory; smoother, new skin – no stressers so no wrinkles..."

"Your hair."

Mustang pointed a finger at her, adding her input to his list. "The long hair."

"No, your hair: it's all black. There's no grey."

He frowned, insulted by the allusion to 'those greys' before his mouth popped open. He gawped at her, the beginnings of epiphany in his eyes.

"The crack in the tile."

"What? I don't understand. Roy-" Hawkeye's chest tightened and she placed her feet on the floor, ready to rush to him because by the looks of things, there was every chance he was about to collapse again.

"Oh my god."

"Roy, what? What's wrong?"

He looked back over his shoulder, then fell against the mirror, pulling down the skin under one eye in examination then raising himself to his full height, or what was now his full height.

"When I last stayed in this room, I remember brushing my teeth _here_ and noticing a crack – _this_ crack in the tile. I was looking down at it."

Hawkeye shook her head, but somewhere in her middle, the truth was beginning to make itself known.

"Now..." he pointed at the crack, "It's totally level with my eye line. I'm shorter. I'm fucking shorter, by at least-" he did a rough calculation from the memory of last noting the broken tile, "an inch and a half. _No..._" He groaned.

Hawkeye was out of the bed, eyes full of shock and astonishment, and deeper inside some primal caution at the uncanny transformation. "You're younger?" She asked, standing face to face with him and recognising immediately their being closer in height.

He swallowed, his throat bobbing, and scrubbed at his hair. "This is terrible. Oh my... I can't..."

He tottered clumsily, grasping at the edge of the basin. Hawkeye caught him firmly by the elbows.

"Sir... Sir! Calm down..."

"Short... I... the brass... my... the Fuhrer! What?"

"Sir! You need to calm down or you're going to-"

She didn't have the opportunity to finish as Mustang's eyes rolled back in his head and he brought them both crashing to the floor.

* * *

Knox looked at the file in his hand, looked at Hughes, Hawkeye then Christmas. He did _not_ want to meet those fierce, unreal eyes.

"Tell me, Knox." Mustang demanded, sitting forward on the edge of the bed. Hawkeye had dressed and was sitting silently in the chair to his right, nursing her newly bruised wrist.

"Well.." the doctor grumbled, toying with the tatty corner of the medical record. "You were 5' 9" at your last medical."

"I know what height I am!" Mustang spat out, then rolled his eyes. "Was."

"You're now-" Knox paused when Mustang pulled in a bracing breath. "A little above 5' 7"."

The room was deathly quiet. Hughes began to speak but stopped, the words catching in his throat as Mustang glared at him.

"Don't," he grit out, "say a thing, Hughes. Go on, Knox."

Knox risked a glance at Christmas who appeared, outwardly at least, to be taking the whole exchange in a muted brand of good humour.

The doctor flicked back through the various medicals the Colonel had undergone over the years.

"The last time you were 5' 7" was when you were – oh."

"Oh?" Mustang asked with eyebrow raised and mouth drawn in an agonisingly thin line.

"Twenty." The word sounded strangely chirpy for all the weight it carried, and no one, least of all Mustang, quite knew what to do with that information. After a long ravine of silence, Knox flicked the file closed and coughed. "Twenty."

"Twenty?" Mustang asked.

"Yeap." The doctor said, suddenly wanting to explain that he had nothing to do with the drop in height _or_ number of candles on the birthday cake. It was the fault of Mustang's so-called 'perfect' array; a little too perfect.

"Ten fucking-"

"Ladies present." Christmas warned, despite everyone in the room knowing that she had a vocabulary that rivalled the bawdiest soldier.

"Ten years! Ten! A third of my living, breathing years on this planet!"

Hawkeye touched his arm lightly. "No fainting, Sir."

Mustang looked at each of them with stunned eyes and everyone, having been told what the 'something different' about him was, now saw the youth in his gaze.

Hughes clapped his hands once and held them together. "Let's look at the positives-"

Mustang looked wholly unimpressed by Hughes' input, but the man continued nonetheless.

"You're in one piece, which is a damn sight better than anyone could have hoped for by all accounts. We know Fuery will be okay; Ed's got clearance to work on him tonight and since _he_ had the decency not to lose gallons of blood, we know he won't drop any inches."

A warning glower from Mustang did little to stop his friend.

"Look, Roy, none of us even noticed the age thing until _you_ brought it up. You look fresher, sure, but with the new, shiny suit of skin and all, you would have done in any case. We can write it off as the incident at the sewage plant, and besides, no one's going to be _looking_ for anything strange. Knox can amend your medical records to account for the height thing and as for your uniform, well, you would have had to order new threads since your house burnt down."

"Another positive." Mustang grumbled.

Christmas levelled her 'no nonsense' stare at her son. "Don't be ungrateful. Any normal character would kill to be ten years younger, and here you are giving off a stink. Stop being a brat and count your lucky stars you're alive. You were starting to go grey anyway, so either way we'd be getting an earful. You have a new body, you'll buy a new house – this is a new start so," she couldn't resist, "grow up"

Mustang's face flushed at the telling off and he chalked 'keeping a cool facade' up with the other skills he would have to rebuild.

"See!" Hughes said lightly. "Positives. It's only a couple of inches, Roy."

"A couple of inches closer to being Fullmetal's height!"

If he wasn't already exceptionally pale, his face would have blanched. "Tell me no one told the squir- Edward." He corrected himself, not wanting to arm his mother and Knox with that particular moniker.

All but Hughes shook their heads.

"_Hughes..._" Mustang groaned and hung his head in his hands. "Aw, this is going to be hellish."

There was no disagreement, and though no one would dare say it, they all saw a naughty kind of justice in Mustang's vertical comeuppance.

It didn't take long for Hughes to make a swift exit away from the scowling, dark features of his newly youthful friend, and Hawkeye had accompanied Christmas to her office. The woman had offered for someone to collect Hawkeye's belongings so she could stay and recover in the bordello. Though Hawkeye was elated about the coming hours with Mustang, she couldn't help but be suspicious of Christmas' motives. The woman had already referred, four times, to how Mustang and two of his original 'sisters' were the last to settle down.

Left alone in the room with the petulant, bristling Colonel, Dr Knox considered leaving his new revelation for another time. But then a pair of savage golden eyes flashed before him and he knew that 'another time' wasn't really acceptable.

"Well," he started, taking up Hawkeye's seat by the bed, "that's what you alchemists get for playing around with circles and light. You should be thankful you only lost a few years and not a leg. Look at the Elric boys."

Mustang sat back with his eyes closed, trying his best to calm himself. _Ten years_, his conscience screamed.

"I don't need you to tell me about what they gave up. I know full well."

"Well then stop your whinging and start looking forward again. Since when did you become so preoccupied with being the old guy?"

There was really no answer to that. He supposed that working with the Elrics, he was now caught in a pendulum swing between scandalously young Colonel and old, bothersome superior. He wondered what the dynamic would be like now.

"It's a shock. Surely you must see that. We're going to have to tread very carefully so as not to alert the wrong interests. Things have grown dangerous – _more_ dangerous."

The doctor hummed slightly and fidgeted with the medical file. "You're going to have a rough few weeks before you go back too. Diphtheria, tetanus, whooping cough, polio, meningitis; probably best to give you the chicken pox while we're at it – you've got a lot of immunisations to get. You'll most likely catch a few nasty things. There's a bad flu going around..."

"Wonderful." Mustang deadpanned. "Just wonderful."

Knox gave a single nod and a steepled his fingers. "Hey kid-" His jaw slackened with the feeling he was about to throw up. _It's a mistake. Step back. Don't say it,_ his thoughts leapt and sputtered.

Blue eyes rested on him, waiting for the rabbit about to be pulled from the hat.

"I have something to tell you, and I am very, very glad you're as weak as a kitten at the moment, because this is really scary news."

With interest piqued, Mustang sat up straightly and gave the doctor the attention he needed. Despite him being a grumpy old fart most the time, the doctor was a guy Mustang wasn't about to ignore. He respected the man, and owed him his counsel.

"Fire away, old man."

Knox smiled at the nickname and did exactly that.

* * *

A long day. Mustang never knew they made them so long. He wondered, with a wry curling of his lip, what an ordinary week might look like. One without rampaging teenage alchemists, ancient bitter foes and mysterious regressions.

Knox's news burned inside him like a hard drink of whiskey, the feeling at once dangerous and warming. A father. The sensation wasn't unsettling. It wasn't _unpleasant_. In fact, a big part of it made a kind of sense to him. It was as though he heard the news before and was merely being reminded of it. Knox was positively shaking when he delivered the news, and Mustang, schooling himself to pragmatism, had laughed and shook the man by the shoulder, _Pleased to meet you!_

He had the suspicion that when the high tide of shocks began to roll out again he would begin to process the news on a deeper level, but in the wake of everything that happened, Knox's story of the cheeky, raven haired girl brought a pleasing gravity to Mustang's life. _I belong_, the voice in his head sang and he remembered his mother's words from inside the transmutation, _You are loved..._

Mustang listened with a smile on his face as Knox described the vivacious, cranky girl; full of winks and a solid, open laugh. They mourned the loss of the photograph but revelled in the shared remembrance. Knox cocked his ear to Mustang and let tears flicker on the surface of his eyes as the young man told him how beautiful, how kind and strong she had been in his dream-state. _No doubting it kid, that wasn't a dream – it was her. Don't I know it. It was her._

And that's how father and son passed the evening. When Knox stood to leave, an unspoken competition ensued over who could remain the most cool about the truth of Mustang's parentage. The younger saying, _We don't have to hug, do we?_ While the elder called back over his shoulder, _Fat chance of you making it onto my will, kid._

It also went unspoken how thrilled and petrified both parties were, but they were feelings that would have to wait for another day.

Now, lying in the near black room, Mustang sighed contentedly as Hawkeye, dressed only in a light vest and black pants, slipped into the bed. His hackles jumped as a breast brushed against his arm. He sucked in a sharp breath and blew it out slowly. It was strange to think that were it not for the agony of the past week, he would probably have been lying in his own bed alone – thinking about the very woman who now lay beside him.

"Are you okay?" Hawkeye asked, her eyes just visible through the darkness.

"Mm-hm." He replied as levelly as he could then bit his lip when she nestled closer to him. He fixed a hand awkwardly to her hip.

"Are you thinking about Knox?" She asked.

Mustang snorted. "Definitely. Not."

Hawkeye laughed and a hot, wet breath tickled his ear. He budged back a little and as she followed him with those delicious, neat hips of hers he realised the true peril of having a brand new, hypersensitive body.

"I better..." He tried but his words got jumbled in his tightening throat and sputtered out in a series of unintelligible syllables. "You're really close."

Hawkeye quirked a brow, but soon timidness took her as she felt Mustang shift again and groan. She shivered and her leaping flesh against his belly and legs was a little more than he could manage. He was hard. Big time.

His lust knocked against her thigh and she gasped at the plucky meat of it. "Oh my-"

"Oh my-" Mustang mimicked, swallowing hard and willing his body to remember how to remain in control. His body was tuned in to a different station it seemed. "Oh my-"

Their eyes met and each held their own fierce, hungry stare. Neither spoke, neither trusted themselves to. The night she stayed in his house, she had refused the act – scared that after years of devotion she finally faced _that_ intimacy. But things had changed, both inside and out for them, and having held him so close as the life dripped out of him, Hawkeye realised how precious their time was. Moments had to be seized, for they could so easily be lost.

_Be a little bolder, Riza._

Bizarrely, she found herself following Mustang's mother's advise and so, sliding her leg up and over his thigh, she pressed her lips to his. Without will or direction, her palms swept along his temples and pushed back into his hair. He moaned against her, and his hands came alive, grappling with her good shoulder and pushing her back. The vest came off easily and he could have died at the fullness of her. He made to roll onto her but his weak elbow collapsed and instead he fell against her.

"Sorry, I -"

"It's okay, it's okay..." She panted, and threw him back to the bed again. She was on him in a second, curling her fingers under his arms and pressing them into the tender flesh south of his shoulder blades.

Mustang wanted to cry as she pushed herself back across his belly, her buttocks coming to rest on his crotch now feverish below his pyjama bottoms. Almost more shocking, and certainly less acceptable than all the other revelations of late, was the thought that he, Roy Mustang: Lothario and seducer, was about to humiliate himself in front of this brave, vicious, gentle woman. The party would be over before they even started. He couldn't have that.

"P-protection-" he cried as her hair swept against his chest. He met her lips with his and indulged in a deep, ravenous kiss before he spoke again, repeating himself through a low, rumbling sigh.

Hawkeye paused and sat back, the smooth curve of her breasts picked out by the scant light. "Yeap. Pill."

She gave him the answer he both did, and really did not want. There was no hiding behind _that_ excuse then. This was it. He was about to sleep with Riza Hawkeye and there was a very good chance he was going to blow it – so to speak.

He consoled himself with the precedence that she had yet to abandon him – weaknesses and all – and so tugging off his bottoms and steeling himself with a breath, he gave himself to her.

As she sank herself onto him with a devastating whimper, he caught her by the small of the back and saw stars. After a matter of only minutes, all the blood had drained from his legs and he bucked against her hard. Then again, and again. He cried into her shoulder as she continued to offer him kisses and smiles against his damp neck. Even as his body betrayed him, he smiled back – laughed even, rapturous in the shadow of her wicked little waist and ferocious, spirited eyes.

He gasped and choked for air, his body wasted and cheeks flushed.

"I swear that's never happened before..."

Hawkeye laughed and wiped a passion born tear from his cheek with her thumb. "Sure."

He grumbled and pulled her off him with one arm. She lay sweating beside him, her lips parted and curved in a tiny, nearly imperceptible smile.

"Don't be mean. This is all new to my little man." He kissed the top of her head. "That was embarrassing. It really isn't usually-"

"The famed womanizer..."

"That's unfair. You didn't get me at my peak."

"Roy Mustang: Casanova."

"Haw haw. How does it feel to be with a younger man, granny?" He asked, trying to sound cocky in his rebuttal.

"Didn't have long enough to decide." She answered straightly, feigning seriousness.

"_Stop it..._" he whined and nuzzled her neck. "You're a horrible, mean woman. I can't be held responsible for anything this body does, or does not do, for the next three months at least."

"Three months..." Hawkeye mused.

Mustang caught the conspiracy in her eyes and knew well to play along. "How many nights is that?"

"Over ninety."

"A lot of practise."

"Just what the doctor ordered."

"We better get started."

"It's probably for the best."

Eyes of the darkest blue glistened devilishly, and with a mischievous laugh, he pulled the blankets over them.

* * *

It was a long time coming, but finally winter took its bow and gave way to the light, thin brightness of spring. Trees blossomed pink and white on the streets of Central while heavy coats were abandoned for another year in favour of jackets.

At headquarters, a buzz swept through every office and corridor as another financial year drew to a close and every officer rushed frantically to get their books balanced and accounts away to the military finance department.

Colonel Mustang's office was no different, and after two and a half months of recovery and respite, the man was in possession of enough energy to make everyone else's life a pain. Following Hawkeye from his office, he grabbed a portfolio from Fuery's desk and scanned it.

"It's looking well, Sergeant." He said distractedly, turning his head to study his less than modest outgoings for the year. "You're going to start mending artillery to earn your keep Fullmetal, I don't have the budget for your antics."

Ed made a show of checking his cuticles as he threw out his comment. "Why Colonel? Funds a little tight this year? A little _short_?"

Mustang grinned back, his black eyes sharp. "Not as short as my fuse, kid." He replaced the file on Fuery's desk. "That's a good piece of work but take it easy, Sergeant."

"Sir." Fuery said back, returning the knowing smile Mustang cast him. They both shared a certain kind of strangeness now in the wake of the transmutations, and Fuery enjoyed the unspoken connection. It was heartening to know he had survived what Mustang had. And not that he ever said it, but he would have taken that bullet a thousand times over for the man.

Hawkeye coughed impatiently, holding open the door with her foot. They were on their way to meet General Grumman at the train station. They planned to tidy up the affairs of winter and put the issue to rest. She didn't want to be late, keen to hear the older man confirm that everything would be fine.

"Okay." Mustang said and waved a goodbye to his staff as he strode towards the door. The team waved innocently back before turning eyes full of mischief to each other.

"Hey Colonel!" Havoc called, leaning back precariously in his chair. "You forgot your hat."

Mustang paused at the door, his hip brushing against his Lieutenant's. He felt her breath wash against his neck and under his collar. He looked down and smiled before casting a sly look at Hawkeye. There were no grey hairs to hide now and so Havoc's tired little trick would not have the desired effect.

"You know what, Havoc?" He called back. "Don't worry about it."

With that, Mustang ushered Hawkeye out with a gentle touch and closed the door behind him with a soft, satisfying click.

* * *

Ta-da. Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts if you have half a chance - would love to hear :)

All the best xx


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